The Trials of Being a Family
by Loxare
Summary: Like it or not, they're family. And that means they have to act like it sometimes. Collected one shots for Batfam Week 2017
1. Chapter 1

**The Grey Ghost and the Mysteries of Family**

* * *

"What are you watching?"

Duke flinched at the sound of Bruce's voice, almost choking on his pop. He didn't, but it was close. "Um." How did he get so quiet? Someone that big shouldn't be so quiet.

Beside him, Dick bent backwards so that his head was laying on top of the backrest of the couch, staring at Bruce who was standing in the doorway. "Hey Bruce! Check out what Duke found!"

Just an old VHS tape, that had somehow survived Zero Year and Joker's Endgame, and moving to different foster homes, and general obsolescence. Duke had found it when he had been unpacking his stuff from storage. Then Dick had walked in, and completely freaked, insisting on watching it.

Bruce stood transfixed. He walked around the couch staring at the tv screen. "The Grey Ghost. I haven't watched this show in years." He sat down next to Dick, and watched with them until the end of the episode. "It's just as good as I remember."

Duke smiled. "Yeah. My parents were big fans too." The now-familiar pain constricted in his chest at the mention of his parents. Nothing too big, just enough to remind him that he missed them. "They kind of got me hooked."

Dick let out a laugh. "Yeah, Bruce did the same to me. This was the only thing he wanted to watch when I was growing up. He thought Animaniacs was dumb."

Duke leaned forward so he could shoot Bruce a glare, raising one eyebrow.

Bruce just shrugged. "It was."

Raising an eyebrow of his own, Dick gave Duke a 'what are you going to do about him' look. "Told you."

"Well, Bruce having no taste aside," Duke stood up, hitting eject on the VCR, "that was the only episode I had." It had been his favourite, so his mom had taped it when it had come on rerun and he'd watched it again and again. It... was a little worn out now. The quality on the tape was deteriorating. Dick hadn't minded though.

Bruce just smiled. "Luckily for you, I have them all." He stood up, typing on his phone. "Dick, go collect Damian and Stephanie please. She took him to the mall for the day. Duke, I need you to track down Jason. Ask Alfred for his current safehouses. He knows more of them than I do." And then he swept out of the room, still typing on his phone.

Duke stood stunned for a second. "Wait, so what? Why do I need to go track down Jason?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Dick reached behind the couch for a backpack. "We're having movie night."

"Yeah, I got that. But why do _I_ have to go after Jason? Why can't you?" The second Robin wasn't a bad guy, but Duke still liked to give him his space. It was a survival thing.

"Because I'm going after Damian." He started going around the room, putting things in the backpack. Damian's sketchbook. His music player. A helmet and a tactical vest. "He just went to the mall after all. I'm probably going to have to smooth over any shoppers, shop owners, or mall security he managed to insult."

Duke thought back to the movie theater he had ended up taking Robin to, before he'd known who Robin was. The kid had managed to insult everything from the popcorn to the seats in the five minutes before the show, but afterwards, Duke had gotten the sense that he'd really enjoyed himself. He dreaded to think how the mall was faring. "Yeah, I don't think I'm up to that. Have fun."

Dick was pulling on a set of falconers gloves. "Thanks! I will!"

This family was weird. At least Alfred was normal. Sort of. Duke found him in the tea room, dusting one of the portraits on the wall. "Hey, Mr. Pennyworth?"

"Just Alfred, please Master Duke." He flicked one last speck of dust off of the frame and rubbed the area down with his polishing cloth. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Bruce wanted to do a Grey Ghost marathon with the family. I need to know where Jason is right now."

"I see." Alfred climbed down the ladder swiftly, somehow making it look dignified. How did he do that? No one could climb down a ladder with dignity. Duke's butt always stuck out too much. "Well, let's go find out, shall we?"

Alfred led him to the kitchen, opening up the massive walk-in dry goods closet. "Hm. We appear to be missing several cans of stewed tomatoes, as well as a bag of rice." He walked over to the fridge next, also massive and filled with more food than Duke knew what to do with. "The green peppers and celery too. I suggest his apartment in Burnside. It's right over a Cajun restaurant and being there for any amount of time gives him a craving for jambalaya." He wrote the address down on a sheet of paper near the phone and handed it over.

"Um, alright." Duke took the paper, but didn't look at it yet. "Jason steals food from here?"

"I suppose he does, technically. However, I have made it clear under no uncertain terms that all the food in this house if free for him to take whenever he desires it." Alfred reached into the top cupboard, grabbing out the hot air popcorn popper and setting it on the counter. "Odd as it may sound, coming into the kitchen and noticing a few missing ingredients is a relief."

"Right." Duke got it, kind of. He used to go home after school and trip over his dad's shoes in the doorway. Then one day he'd come home and there were no shoes to trip over. "Thanks Alfred. See you in a bit." And then he headed for the garage.

Bruce had offered to buy him literally any car, but they all made Duke kind of uncomfortable. What if he crashed one? Or just scratched the paint? What if he went to visit Riko, and someone stole his car? So he kept saying no to every car magazine that Bruce slid his way. Finally, he'd walked into the garage one day to find an old, beat up Chevy with only two working seat belts that barely ran. He and Bruce had spent the day fixing it up. Now it ran like a dream, but it still looked like crap.

He checked to make sure his license was in his wallet, then drove off. Burnside was a half hour drive normally, but Duke knew a short cut through Otisburg. Twenty five minutes later, he was pulling up outside the Louisiana Purchase. The address for the apartment was right next door. Takng a deep breath to brace himself, he walked towards the buzzers on the side of the building.

Jason was apartment 504. The buzzer for 504 was conspicuously absent. "Great." Hoping, he pressed the button for 506.

"Whaddya want?" The voice was gravelly and angry sounding and distinctly not Jason.

"Hey. I'm trying to get 504, but there's no button."

"Fuckin' again? Hey!" There was a loud thudding noise, that sounded like the lady was pounding on her wall. "You got a visitor you sack of crap!"

Very, very faintly, Duke heard Jason call, "Love you too Mabel!"

Mabel pounded on the wall one more time. "He'll be down in a bit." And then she hung up.

"Thanks." That was weird. Duke went back to his car and sat on the hood. With the new change in position he could see someone climb out of a window on the fifth floor and start scaling down the drain pipe. When the person got to the third floor, Duke was able to make out his face. "Jason?"

Jason slipped a bit, dropping half a story before getting his grip back. "Oh, hey Duke!" He climbed down the rest of the way, then walked over to Duke, dusting off his jacket. "Why didn't you say it was you?"

"Who did you think it was going to be? Any why did you take the drain pipe?!"

"Fire escape's busted. The platforms are fine, but the stairs are rusted through."

And yeah, now that Duke was looking they did look pretty rusty. "Shouldn't someone report that? It's not really safe."

Jason shrugged. "Yeah, we did. Landlord doesn't care. And to answer your other question, last week I kicked nine kinds of crap out of the local street thugs. Thought they might have wanted payback. And before you ask, I was in my civvies when it happened, and the Purchase told me that if I got into another fight outside their restaurant, they weren't going to give me anymore sassafras. They get theirs from New Orleans, and it's the best."

Duke knew for a fact that he could just go to New Orleans himself and get his own sassafras, but he also wasn't going to ask. "Good to know. So Bruce is having a Grey Ghost marathon at the manor. Do you wanna come?"

"Really?" Jason perked up, giving a nostalgic smile. "Yeah I do. But only if we get to the episode where they introduce Clancy. I love Simon Trent, but Clancy is the best character on that show. Well, second best. But Claire doesn't show up until season three."

"We're going to have to agree to disagree on that one." Duke and Jason got in the car, Duke starting it up when Jason fastened his belt. "Don't get me wrong, Claire was fantastic as Wisper, and Reaper was a great counterpoint to Grey Ghost."

"All true."

"But Kitt Terra was the best character on the show." Dark Owl was the best. She was morally grey, charismatic, and had more than a few stories where she wasn't just Grey Ghost's love interest.

Jason considered it. "Ok, I can see it. Dang, that puts Clancy down to third."

"Claire, Kitt, Clancy?" Duke guessed.

"Yup."

They continued chatting (geeking out, if Duke was being honest) about the show until they pulled into the garage. Before he had the engine shut off, Jason was out of the car and headed for the kitchen, tossing a, "Good talk Duke," over his shoulder as he went.

Duke was just closing his door when Dick's car pulled in. It was nicer than Duke's, but nowhere close to Bruce's cheapest car. It was also an awful shade of bright blue. Normally, blue didn't have bad shades, but this one was so bright it hurt Duke's eyes.

Before he could ask how the mall had gone, Damian had stomped past him and into the manor, slamming the door behind him. "That bad, huh?"

Steph looked a little frazzled, but otherwise otherwise un-maimed. "It was going really well until we stopped for lunch and the waitress gave him a children's menu without asking."

He winced in sympathy. That had gotten bad enough reactions when Damian had been twelve. Now that he was thirteen and technically too old for the children's menu... "Ouch. Did the waitress make it out ok?"

Dick shrugged and lead them into the manor. "She was crying when I got there, but I managed to put a smile back on her face. The restaurant owner even promised not to press charges."

"Yeah, but we're banned for life now." Steph pouted. "That was my favourite Lebanese place."

Duke patted her shoulder in sympathy. It was all he could do. Except maybe help her with her make up when she inevitably decided to disguise herself and sneak back in.

When they got to the theater (and the manor had a theater. A. Theater.), Bruce, Cass, and Tim were already there, Tim and Cass sitting and Bruce trying to hook up the DVD player to the television. Tim looked well rested, which was weird, and also mad at Cass, which was weirder. Cass noticed his confusion, of course, and said, "I did a nerve strike on him yesterday. He had a full twelve hours of sleep."

"Yeah, and I missed four board meetings!"

"You'll have to make them up later Timmy." Dick ruffled his brother's hair and sat next to him. "After Bruce has a word with your secretary about your schedule."

Bruce was saved from having to answer by Damian stomping into the room, Alfred the Cat close at his heels. He flopped in the seat next to Dick, pulling up his legs to sit crosslegged, and crossing his arms too. The cat hopped into his lap and started purring. "So, what monstrosity are we watching today?"

Oh good, he was in a good mood. Duke just rolled his eyes and sat next to Cass, letting Steph explain as she sat on Duke's other side. "The Grey Ghost. It's a little campy, and you'll probably hate the action, but it's got great humor. I think you'll like it."

"Yes Grayson, because I am known for my love of humor." But Damian had uncrossed his arms and was petting Alfred the Cat. Duke knew that soon, the cat would have relaxed Damian enough for him to be happy and content and much less critical of the show. Clearly, Alfred the Cat was a mad genius.

The door to the theater opened once again, letting Alfred the Butler and Jason in, wheeling a cart filled with goodies behind them. "Alright nerds. We've got milkshakes, popcorn, and miscellaneous snacks." Jason handed out the milkshakes, chocolate to Cass, vanilla to Tim and Damian, bubble-gum ice cream to Dick and Steph, strawberry for Duke, claiming a chocolate one for himself and sitting next to Steph.

Alfred handed out bags of Skittles and bite sized chocolates, then handed a bowl of popcorn to everyone. They had to have individual popcorn, or there would be fighting. Duke shuddered to remember the popcorn fight of '16. He'd barely come home from that war. "Remember children, this is for tonight only. It is not permission to spoil your diets with this junk on a daily basis."

There was a chorus of, "Yes Alfred!" Alfred nodded, sitting on the end and leaving the spot between him and Damian open for Bruce.

Bruce stood up from the DVD player and took his seat, grabbing his own vanilla milkshake and assorted snacks from Alfred. "Let's get started then."

He hit a button on the remote and the television turned on. After a long moment of darkness, the screen brightened to grey, the title card announcing, _Beware the Grey Ghost_.

* * *

 **AN: Welcome to Batfam Week! Until Sunday, I will be posting a story a day following one of the prompts for the week. This one is Family, and my first attempt at writing Duke!**

 **This is also a homage to the late great Adam West, who played Batman in the 1966 series and The Grey Ghost in the Animated Series. In the episode he appeared in, it was just the Grey Ghost in his series, but I added more characters based on the '66 Batman. Full cast below.**

 **For Gen Batfam Week, I'm also taking prompts. Message me if you have something you want me to write. Since it's Gen, and since I don't write romance anyways, no shippy stuff.**

 **Read and enjoy! Loxie out!**

 **Credits** :

Simon Trent/Grey Ghost – West Adams

Clancy Johnson/Reaper – Ward Burton

Claire Barber/Wisper – Yvette Craine

Kitt Terra/Dark Owl – Sandy Kitner


	2. Chapter 2

**The Consequences of Faking your Death and Vengeful Children**

* * *

"Ready guys?" Dick looked at all of his siblings, and one honourary sibling. In their football huddle, they nodded solemnly, ready for the monumental task ahead of them. Dick nodded back. "Alright then. Break!"

Stephanie and Jason immediately headed towards the Cave. Tim and Damian headed for the parlour, while Dick and Cass headed for the study. Dick climbed to the highest shelves and started taping the papers he had in his backpack on them, while Cass did the same to Bruce's desk. They were meticulous, making sure every inch was covered. Once she was done with the desk, she started on the chair, then the floor. By the time Dick was most of the way around the room, she'd finished papering the lamp and started on the lower shelves and walls. Finally, they looked at their work, proud as peaches.

Bruce's face. Hundreds and hundreds of the exact same face, Bruce's whenever he looked at one of the kids in exasperation. All printed in greyscale on coloured paper. As a bonus, Cass taped an airhorn under Bruce's seat, while Dick did the same for behind the door. Dick smiled. "Nice. We done here?"

Cass shook her head. She went to a hall closet, grabbing out a large box. Dick nearly fell over laughing at the contents. A computer screen, keyboard, mouse and office phone, all made out of cardboard. "Barbara's contribution. She said she and Dinah had a great time making these."

"Remind me to give them both a hug." Considering Babs was already getting them the footage, this extra was unexpected and very welcome. They quickly stripped the electronics off of Bruce's desk, replacing them with their surprisingly detailed cardboard counterparts. Each item had a bit of yarn sticking out of it, that Dick taped over their respective ports on the computer tower. That finished, they made their way down into the Cave to check on Jason and Steph's progress.

The Batmobile was completely covered in Post It notes. Ones shaped like bats, which Steph had seen online and flipped out over. Steph was busy painting Bruce's fourth contingency suit a bright neon green. Jason was over by the computer, doing something with the keyboard. Something involving damp toilet paper and grass seeds. Cass walked over and sat on the counter, watching him, while Dick admired the lovely job they had done with Bruce's utility belt. It involved a bowl full of jello and the Batcave's blast freezer.

After Jason put the keys back onto the keyboard, Cass asked, "What was that for?"

"In a few days, Bruce will have a small garden growing here." He dusted his hands, then started towards the car. "You have to check this out. It's brilliant." He pointed at the windshield wipers. "Steph put large globs of paint on here. We had to coat them in dark powder so Bruce wouldn't notice, but when he turns on his wipers next, he's going to put a rainbow across his windshield."

"Ooh, nice!" Dick looked at the globs appreciatively. It was true. He hadn't noticed them until he was really close. "You used slow drying paint?" Jason nodded. "How are you going to make him use his wipers?"

"Rigged a water balloon at the Cave's exit. It'll smack into the passenger side, but he'll want to get that off immediately."

Cass reached up to pat Jason on the white streak. "Good job little brother. What else do you have?"

"Nothing really, besides the suits."

"Yeah," Steph called from across the Cavern, "which you promised to help me with! Get the blue paint you nerd!"

Jason gave Dick and Cass a rueful smile and shrugged. "I've been summoned. Better run before she drags you in too."

Dick and Cass made their escape upstairs. Dick kind of wanted to check on Tim and Damian anyways. They'd made leaps in their relationship insofar as neither of them were trying to kill the other, and Tim had deleted his file on how to take down Damian, but it was still rocky.

When they got to the parlour, they hesitated outside the door. Dick didn't know what sort of traps had been laid, so he didn't know how to not spring them. Cass just raised an eyebrow at Dick and knocked lightly on the doorframe.

There was a bit of shuffling, then Tim cracked the door open. "Hey guys! Almost done. Do you wanna see?"

"Don't let Drake take any of the credit." Damian said from his perch on the fifth rung of a ladder. "He is merely executing my plans."

"Oh?" Dick ruffled Damian's hair, pulling back quickly when Damian made a grab at his wrist. "And is he doing a good job?"

Damian scowled. After a moment, he ground out, "It's passable."

Tim just rolled his eyes and pointed above the doorframe. "We figured that you four would be doing big and flashy, so we decided to do something small that would really ruin Bruce's day." A bucket was balanced precariously on a little metal shelf above the door. "That's a combination of cold instant coffee, glitter, and soy sauce."

"Nice one." Cass stood under and a little to the side of the contraption. "Will it go off if I stand under it?"

"Nope. That's the best part." Tim fished into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a doomsday remote. It even had a little plastic cover over the switch. "We didn't want to hit one of us by accident, so it'll only fall when we hit this." He tilted it so Cass and Dick could see, blushing a bit when the cover flipped open. "The cover is a bit loose. Which is fine, it's just there so I don't hit it accidentally when it's in my pocket." With that, he flipped the cover over and shoved the remote back in his pocket.

"Good thinking." Dick ruffled Tim's hair this time, leaving his hand on Tim's head for a moment before dropping it. Sometimes Tim needed reassurances that Dick still loved him, even months after Bruce had returned.

Which is what this was about, naturally. This was the first day that all of them had been together, and not busy with a crisis in Gotham. So, naturally, they were expressing their frustration with Bruce fake dying on them with some semi-harmless pranks. Steph had suggested it, her initial reasoning being, "He doesn't get to copy me, I faked my death first."

Speaking of. She and Jason walked through the door, whatever paint they'd had on their faces and clothes carefully washed out. Tim reached over and grabbed at a piece of paint that had gotten stuck in Steph's hair.

"So, when do the fireworks go off?" Jason threw himself into a chair, pulling a book out of an inside pocket and flipping through the pages.

Dick took a seat opposite Jason, on the couch, pulling Damian and Tim down to sit on either side of him. Steph and Cass took the other couch. "Bruce gets home in twenty minutes, if that's what you mean. We just have to make sure he comes here first. Steph, what do you have there?"

"The soap from Bruce's shower." Steph held up the bar and waggled it. Then, she pulled a bottle of clear nail polish from her pocket and opened it. "Brand new, Alfred just put it in this morning. So, of course, I have to mess with it." Carefully, she started applying the nail polish to the soap. "Once this baby is dry, it's going right back in. Let's see Bruce wash off whatever concoction Tim and Dami whipped up now."

Jason smiled and held up his hand for a high five, which Steph did not leave him hanging on. "You're my favourite." Cass tossed a slipper at him, which he blocked with his book. "Sorry, second favourite. No offense Steph."

"Nah, it's cool. Being second to Cass is being about a million tiers above anyone else."

Everyone considered this, then nodded. Then froze as they heard the sound of tires in the driveway. "Bruce is home!" Dick cried out. Finally! He raced to the window to watch as Bruce and Alfred started up the walkway.

"Drake, I wish to press the button."

"What? No, I did all the set up."

Uh oh. Dick turned away from the window, dread settling in his gut.

"I made the plans for it. And it was me who prepared the bucket, in case you've forgotten." Tim had the remote out and held high above his head. Damian was standing about an inch away, standing on his tip toes to try and reach it.

"Guys," Dick made his way away from the window. "Can't you just both push the button?"

Damian and Tim both looked at him like he was crazy. "It's a small button Dick," Tim said slowly, enunciating each word with care.

"Yes, and I should get to press it!" Damian reached a little higher, overbalanced, and fell into Tim, sending them both to the ground. Tim's back smacked rather forcefully against the front of Steph and Cass's couch, with Damian practically in his lap. After a moment of recovery, they started shouting at each other.

"Give it here Drake!"

"No way! I did most of the work you brat!"

"Sharing is caring Drake!"

"Get your own button!"

(In the hallway, Bruce listened to the racket in the parlour. He had been looking forward to relaxing in his favourite chair, as he did most days after coming home from the office, but there would be no relaxation if all of his kids were arguing in there. "Alfred, I hate to ask, but can you keep them from breaking anything? I'm going to go take a nap before patrol."

"Of course Master Bruce." Alfred knew exactly how exhausting dealing with the board members was. Almost half as exhausting as dealing with Bruce on any given day. He went to the kitchen for some refreshments, hoping to cool whatever tempers had flared in the parlour.)

Steph and Cass were still occupied with their bar of soap, barely giving them a glance. Jason still had his book open and covering his face, but his eyes kept peeking out over the top. Clearly, if Dick wanted this resolved, he would have to do it himself.

He was halfway to the couch when the door opened. Tim, startled, dropped his arm half an inch. The cover had flipped open, and the exposed button jammed itself unceremoniously on Damian's middle finger. There was a beep, then metal scraping against metal, the platform smacking into the wall, and the bucket landing directly on Alfred's head.

The room was silent.

Alfred stood for a moment in the doorway, a drink tray in one hand, the contents of which were now ruined by a coffee/soy sauce/glitter sludge. Tim was frozen solid. Damian bolted, running behind Dick for cover. Cass and Steph were looking at Alfred in horror. Jason was trying to disappear behind his book.

Dick swallowed – once, twice – before speaking. He was the oldest, it was his job to take responsibility. "Sorry Alfred. That was supposed to have hit Bruce." As soon as he said it, he knew it was a bad idea.

The look Alfred had on his face as he removed the bucket was one that promised retribution. Then, he placed the bucket on the floor, and the look was gone by the time he had straightened up. "It shouldn't have hit anyone, Master Dick. I expect you to clean all of this up within the hour. All of you. I'm off to go see what other chores I can assign you." And with that, Alfred left.

"Well," Jason slammed his book closed with a bang. "Time to leave Gotham. It was nice knowing you folks. I'll rinse the bucket." And then he left, grabbing the bucket on his way out.

Of course, that was the one thing that was possible to do outside. Luckily, most of the coffee/soy/glitter mixture had landed on Alfred, leaving just a few puddles to deal with for the rest of them. Dick wiped most of it off the hardwood with a napkin, throwing it in the bag Damian held oped for him. Steph wiped the floor down with a cloth, Cass sprayed it with hardwood polish, which Tim then worked into the floor with another cloth.

"Jason had the right idea though." Steph tossed her cloth back in the bucket. "We should probably leave before Bruce finds out about the other stuff."

"Oh yeah." Tim shuddered a bit. "We might have to clean it."

"So making Alfred clean it is better?" Dick raised an eyebrow.

Cass smiled. "Alfred won't. If Bruce wants to be the night, he's going to have to clean his own suits."

The rest of them nodded. "Need help getting that bar of soap into Bruce's bathroom?" Dick offered.

"Heck yeah." Steph picked up her now-dry soap and made for the stair case.

(Hours later, Bruce stared in silent shock at his cave. And he'd thought the study had been bad. His first six suits, old models that he'd retired but held onto for nostalgia/back ups, had been painted. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, from oldest to most recent. His current suit was a travesty of neon, a rainbow from left to right. The Batmobile was covered in Post Its. Bat shaped Post Its. He really hoped they would come off, because he didn't really have time to pull them all off individually. Thankfully, his kids had left the windshield uncovered.

With a sigh, he reached into the very back of his cotton-ball-filled locker, opening the secret panel that was his actual suit backup. After Alfred had declared, all those years ago, that he wouldn't scrub a single fleck of paint out of Bruce's suit until he learned to control his child, Bruce had learned to keep a secret spare.

With a sigh, he did some quick checking on the Batcomputer, noting a slight sluggishness to the keys. He'd have to check that at some point, but it was not a big enough hindrance to worry him for now. Once he had the information necessary for tonight's patrol, he pulled up his cowl and jumped in the Batmobile.

On his way out of the Cave, a water balloon, a black one hanging on a string, smacked against his windshield. With another sigh, he turned on the windshield wipers.)

* * *

 **AN: Today's prompt is Shenanigans! Ah, poor Bruce. Alfred is definitely making him clean this all up, especially once all the Batkids leave the country.**

 **The only prank I thought of was painting the Batsuits rainbow. All the rest were Googled, except for the bucket which my lovely beta Arrowcomix thought of. Find the fanart that inspired this fic on tumblr!**

 **Read and enjoy! Loxie out!**


	3. Chapter 3

**An Opportunity Used and Misused**

* * *

It was the latest trend amongst the wealthy. One that Tim thought to be in rather bad taste, although some people used the opportunity to do good.

A remembrance ceremony for the long departed was how the invitations read. Families would host a party to remember the lost child/parent/sibling/miscellaneous other relative who had passed years earlier. Not to grieve, but to remember them as they had been, and celebrate all the ways they still affected the lives of those left behind.

Some of the less heartless people would use the opportunity to raise money to combat the illness or violence or what-have-you that had taken their loved ones from them. For example, the Hamiltons collected several million dollars which was donated in its entirety to pancreatic cancer research. Unfortunately, most used the trend as an excuse to hold a gala and impress important people.

Bruce had been pressured into doing one by several of his socialite peers. The one for his parents had been last month, during which Bruce and a hundred others donated to removal of street crime, opening of orphanages and homeless shelters, and production of low-experience jobs. The usual collection that Bruce had been donating to for over a decade.

Of course, after the party, more than one of the party goers – most of them the ones who hadn't donated, the ones who just wanted the prestige of going to a Wayne Gala – had called Bruce's office, asking when the one for "that Todd boy" would be.

Tim stifled a laugh at the thought, covering it with a sip of champagne. Red Hood had spent the week before slaughtering most of Falcone's drug trade. Bruce had, with gritted teeth, told his secretary to inform any callers that the remembrance ceremony for Jason Todd would be held soon.

It was rather hypocritical of them to demand a party in Jason's honour when most of those lowlife bluebloods had spent the entirety of Jason's childhood mocking him and informing him to his face that he was a simple street rat who deserved none of what Bruce had given him. Not to mention the allegations that they loved to spread around as to _why_ Bruce had taken Jason in. The same allegations that had cropped up when Dick had been taken in, and Tim. The same allegations that numerous CPS agents had declared unfounded. Luckily, Damian was being spared the same treatment, and Tim hoped Duke would be too.

One of the prime allegation-spreaders was heading towards Tim. He plastered his best smile on his face, because although he would love nothing more than to punch the man, he couldn't. _But Tim_ , the unhelpful voice of unreasonableness said, _This is a party in Jason's honour. And you know he would love nothing more than for you to sock this guy in the face_.

Yeah, but Tim also had to negotiate a deal with him in the morning. "Mr. Gate, I'm glad you could make it. Is Mrs. Gate here? We have a selection of cherry tarts that I believe she would adore."

"Timmy old boy!" Gate, founder of Gateway Pharmaceuticals, clapped Tim on the back. Hard. "It's great to be here! Sadly, Mrs. Gate won't be joining us. She's come down with a bug." No, she'd just become tired of her husband insulting her at parties and playing it off as a joke. Tim had found her in the bathroom at the Whittaker Gala and given her some advice and the card for WE Law Department's best divorce lawyer. Tim would have to make sure to send the invitation to Mrs. Gate only next time.

"Sad to hear it." Tim said. "I do hope she can come to the next one." They parted cordially, Mr. Gate clapping Tim hard on the spine again as he went looking for Bruce, Tim going over the eventual takeover of his company, starting with the meeting tomorrow.

He mingled for another hour. Eventually, he found himself face to face with the table set up to inform people not in the know the circumstances surrounding Jason's death. Well, the official story anyways. During a volunteer mission in Ethiopia giving medicine to those in need, the warehouse that had stored the medicine had been targeted by insurgents. Jason had died trying to get warehouse workers out. It was a good story, and close enough to the truth to be a good lie too.

Finally, when his cheeks were starting to ache from the forced nature of his smile, he caught up to Dick, who was being flirted at by a rather lovely girl who was closer to Tim's age than Dick's. Dick looked supremely uncomfortable. "There you are!" Tim smiled as Dick's eyes lit up. Red Robin to the rescue once again. "Bruce was looking for you. He wants you to meet with the police commissioner, to discuss funding for the department." He turned to the girl, Alison Marsden, and smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry to take him from you. Maybe I can keep you company instead?"

Alison blushed and Dick clapped an appreciative hand on his shoulder. Tim was able to keep Alison occupied until her mother came looking for her, and accepted her phone number with a promise to call. And he would. She was funny and charming and even though she deserved better than him, he would like to get to know her better. Perhaps they would do business one day.

Finally, the time for speeches started. Bruce's was short, morose. He focused on who Jason had been – a bright and charming boy, cut down too soon – and finished by announcing the Todd Foundation, a charity organization funding literacy in children in all walks of life, and which would be where the donations for the evening would be going.

Dick's was simple. He told his favourite story from when Jason had been alive, the one weekend he'd been able to drag him away from the city and go camping. It was filled with laughs for his attentive audience, from their tent floating away because Jason hadn't staked it to a bear eating all their hamburgers while Dick and Jason sat in a tree.

The experience hadn't stopped Dick though. He'd taken Tim camping three times, each time more successfully than the last. Their last camping trip had been completely normal, except for the squirrels chucking pine cones at their tent at 4am.

Then, finally, Tim's speech came up. He strode up to the podium, clearing his throat just before he got there so it wouldn't get picked up by the mic. He hoped his speech wouldn't sound too stilted. "Jason Todd. Although I never had the privilege of meeting the boy who had been lost to this family, I feel like I knew him. So often, Bruce or Dick or Alfred would get a far away look in their eyes and give me a snippet as to who he had been. Often it was a story, or a habit, or how he helped Alfred around the house. Needless to say, I feel like I know him pretty well."

Dick, who had been nodding along, melancholy all over his face, shot his head up, giving Tim a quizzical look. Of course he would have been the one to notice.

"In all the stories, he struck me as a protector. Someone who would have given his life saving someone else. A hero, if you would, although not in the same way as the heroes who grace our fair city." Tim paused, for emphasis mostly. Dick, in the audience, was openly gaping at him. Steph, his plus one, was shoving canapes in her mouth to stifle the laughter. Bruce looked disappointed. "Death has taken him, as it has taken so many, but he went as he would have wanted to go. In his mission to Ethiopia, he saved dozens of lives. Never hesitating, never wavering. Greatness isn't a word many would use to describe him, considering his humble beginnings," and yes, that was a direct dig at the people who had mocked Jason when he was a kid, "but in that moment, and in many moments before that, he was truly great. Understanding that his death was a tragedy, but also a victory, can only help us through it. So Jason, we miss you, and we thank you for showing us how to be great."

Tim bowed a little, thanking the people for their time, and walked off the stage. Not bad, didn't sound too choppy he thought. His throat was a little dry though.

Steph was the first to intercept him, while he was getting punch. "I am so proud of you. Dad's code, really?"

Tim grinned. "It was a bit tricky, but so worth it." He wasn't a wordsmith, so writing his speech had been torture. He winced thinking about it, and took a sip of his punch.

Steph was still trying not to laugh when Dick came up to them. "He's going to kill you." "He" probably being Jason. "Did you have to use that particular one?"

"It's the only one that I know all of us know. Including Jason." And Jason would definitely find out. The speeches had been recorded, to be put on the Todd Foundation's web page, and Jason had always had a morbid fascination with his death and how people had reacted to it. And he was far too smart to miss such an obvious code, especially when Cluemaster had been active during his Robin years.

Cass strode up from whichever corner she'd melted into for the entirety of the gala, pinching him hard on the leg. "Silly little brother. What if someone else notices it?" But she was smiling, as only Cass could.

Tim adopted his most innocent expression. "But dear sister, it was an accident! Truly, an unfortunate one. I was trying to pay homage to my departed sibling, who I sadly never knew. And now these accusations are being thrust upon me!"

Cass pinched him again, a warning this time as some eager reporter came within earshot, making a show of taking her time picking out hors d'oeurves as the Wayne children (and guest) chatted about the party and the guests and the speeches. Eventually, Steph "noticed" the reporter's difficulties, pointing out her favourites on the table. Tim and Dick joined in, Cass just picking up a chocolate strawberry and eating it. Tomorrow, there would be a puff piece about the Wayne children's favourite foods.

Eventually, Damian spotted them and walked over. "Based on Grayson's reaction, there was something more to Drake's mediocre speech than there appeared." He paused, long enough for all of them to guess what he wanted, but making him say it. Dick said it was good for him to learn to ask people for stuff. "Well? What was it?"

Dick smiled, shifting his weight until he was standing close to Damian, but not quite touching him yet. "The Cluemaster's Code. First letter of each sentence spells out the secret message."

Damian went through it, his perfectly trained memory giving him every syllable of Tim's speech. "Hm. Infantile, but I can't fault it." And even though he looked a little ill at the thought, he managed to force out the next sentence. "Adequate work Drake."

"Thanks Damian." He didn't need the kid's praise, but Dick had told him to try being nice. So this was nice.

The kid nodded, leaning back slightly so his shoulder was against Dick's arm. At the invitation, Dick wrapped an arm around Damian's shoulders, giving him a squeeze. Damian smiled slightly at the praise.

"Uh oh." Steph looked up from her plate full of cream puffs and blanched. "Incoming. See you in the next life Tim."

"Will miss you Tim." Cass gave him a peck on the cheek, waving as she followed Steph, Dick and Damian far enough away to not get caught in the crossfire, but close enough to eavesdrop.

Bruce just gave them all knowing looks, before turning a disapproving one on Tim. "Really?"

"Uh huh." Tim took a sip of punch, then topped off his glass. "I had had another one written, but that got scrapped two weeks ago." Two weeks ago, Red Hood had sniped one of Red Robin's targets, one with vital information for his case. He had eventually found his bank robber, but it had taken an additional three days.

Bruce just gave out a long suffering sigh. If Tim had to guess, he was lamenting ever taking on a Robin. Either that or thinking he was getting too old for this. Wisely, he left it at that and went to go drown his sorrows in thoughts of justice.

Tim smiled and grabbed a mini quiche. Not bad, as far as these things went.

* * *

 **AN: Gen Batfam Week Day 3 is Wayne Gala.**

 **Tim is passive aggressively getting some frustrations out. And in case anyone is wondering, the Cluemaster's code is a thing from the comics. First letter of every sentence spells out the code. It's simple enough, but kind of tricky making text flow while spelling something out. Eh.**

 **In case anyone is wondering, Tim's speech said, "Jason is a dingus." Nice Tim. Nice.**

 **There's a fanart based on this on Arrowcomix's tumblr! You should check it out.**

 **Read and enjoy! Loxie OUT!**


	4. Chapter 4

**When Sorry Must be Said**

* * *

From where Tim was standing, they were probably screwed.

They, being him, Dick and Damian, had been on their way home from the movies. They'd been chatting about the cool fight scenes and the fantastic plot, the part when she lifted the tank, and how amazing and wonderful the No Man's Land scene had been. And then they'd been surrounded by twenty three thugs and it had all gone downhill from there.

Because while they were armed (assorted batarangs, smoke bombs, Tim's staff), there was no way to use them without having to explain why Bruce Wayne's three sheltered sons knew how to use them so skillfully. Well, they could maybe use the smoke bombs, but those wouldn't be much good when they were surrounded on all sides.

"Give us everything you've got!" The leader had a grill installed in his teeth, and was more tattoo than skin. "Phones, wallets, cash, valuables!" As if they'd needed an explanation as to what "everything" was.

With a sigh, Tim had tossed over his wallet, phone and watch. Dick did the same with his stuff, then gestured for Damian to do the same. The kid looked incredulous, and furious, but did as Dick asked.

With a grin, one of the thugs stepped forward and grabbed up the pile. He went back to his place in the circle, his tall and green mohawk quivering with excitement. Which quickly turned to rage when he opened the wallets. "What are you trying to pull? There's barely twenty bucks in here!"

"We used a gift card at the movies," Dick said unhelpfully.

Mohawk snarled. "That's a load of bunk! I know how you rich types work, where's the rest of it?!"

"Maybe if your mother hadn't procreated with a swine, you would be able to see that we're telling the truth."

There was a long beat of silence. Mohawk Thug looked confused, trying to figure out what Damian had said. Dick facepalmed, and Tim swore internally. Dick had said that Damian had been getting better about not provoking people who would gladly stab him, but apparently that only applied when in costume.

Finally, one of the other thugs, one wearing a red shirt and a vest, finally took pity on Mohawk ad whispered in his ear. It was actually kind of funny watching Mohawk's face go from confused to furious. "You said _what_ about my mother?!"

It happened fast after that. Mohawk drew his gun. Dick moved, and the gun went off. Then several more gunshots sounded and Mohawk went down with four slugs in his chest. The rest of the thugs ran for cover.

If the bullet had hit Damian, it would have hit him smack in the middle of his chest. But it hadn't. Instead, Dick fell, bleeding from the stomach.

Tim pulled off his sweater, balling it up and pressing against Dick's wound, his attention torn between keeping a decent amount of pressure and finding out where the other four shots came from. Damian was standing where he had been before Mohawk had tried to shoot him, the smirk that had been on his face at a particularly good insult now shriveled and gone, making way for a stunned horror.

Red Hood landed on the pavement in front of them, one gun still pointed at Mohawk. The other tossed a phone at Damian, who caught it on reflex. "Call an ambulance!" He pulled his other gun and took a few pot shots at the few thugs who weren't three blocks away already.

Shakily, Damian did as he was told. Once the call was placed, he fell to his knees beside Dick, one hand fisting in his jeans, the other extending towards Dick. "Grayson, I-"

Tim smacked his hand away quickly, then went back to applying the pressure that could save Dick's life. "No, you don't get to touch him. It's your fault he's hurt!"

Damian sat stiffly and still, unmoving except for the hand that Tim had smacked. That hand was shaking, the streak of red blood – Dick's blood, transferred from Tim's hand to Damian's – running down his hand and dripping onto his jeans.

"N-no." Dick's face was screwed up in pain, but he still attempted a comforting smile. "Dami'n, n't..."

"Shut up Dick, you need to conserve your strength." Tim's sweater was thoroughly soaked by this point, and the cool evening breeze turned freezing with just his t shirt.

Jason was still shooting at the thugs, dodging when they shot back at him but not leaving his post in front of the other three. Right up until some crappy shot (or really good shot, depending on what he was aiming for) sent a bullet straight at Tim. Jason stepped in front of that one, catching it in the leg and sending a few rounds of his own at the guy. Tim didn't see if they hit, but considering no other shots were fired after that, Jason hadn't missed.

Jason swore, clutching at his thigh. If Tim wasn't busy trying to keep Dick's intestines inside his abdomen, he would be over there giving Jason first aid. But he was, so he couldn't. And Damian was more than a little useless right now.

A fragile sort of quiet settled on the brothers. Dick was still groaning in pain, as was Jason. While getting shot was nothing new, it still hurt a lot. Jason was trying to wrap a bandage around his leg, to stem the bleeding, and Dick was trying to grab Damian's hand. He kept missing, but didn't give up until he brushed past Damian's hand and Damian flinched violently. Dick's hand flopped onto the concrete, Damian's landing in his lap.

Mohawk groaned in pain, and Jason responded by shooting him in the head. "Jason!" Tim snapped, "What did you do that for?"

"What do you think?" Jason snapped back.

Tim would reply, say something, anything, but Dick groaned again, and he had to go back to focusing on not pressing too hard.

Finally, the distant sound of sirens became much less distant. "Took their sweet time," Jason muttered. "I'm out. Good luck explaining this to the cops." And then, despite the gaping hole in his leg, Jason grappled off.

The next half hour was a whirlwind of medics and questions and more questions. The paramedics loaded Dick into the ambulance, tucked Damian into the front seat and kept Tim in the back so they could ask him what Dick's name was, how old he was, if he had any allergies, what had happened, how long ago he'd gotten shot. Tim answered as much as he was able, as concisely as he was able, and if it wasn't even close to on par with what he would normally put into a report, it was still better than most civilians would be able to do.

When they got to the hospital, Dick was rushed to surgery. The doctor in charge asked him all the same sorts of questions the paramedics did before heading in. Then the questions were repeated by the trauma ward consultant, a nurse, and the police, when they finally showed up. By the time everyone was done asking Tim questions, he's tired, thirsty, and more than a little panicked. Sure, Dick had survived worse injuries. One time Killer Croc had gouged him really deeply in the chest, punctured a lung and nearly his heart. But after hours in surgery with Leslie and a few months recovery, he had been back hopping rooftops.

But, of course, it had been Nightwing who had survived that. And while Dick and Nightwing were the same, Tim still couldn't help but worry about the man in ways he had never worried about Nightwing.

Weary from the millions of questions he'd answered over and over, from trying to keep Dick from bleeding out, Tim collapsed in a chair, not noticing until he'd let out a deep sigh that he'd sat right across from Damian.

The kid looked... his age, for once. Like any other kid whose loved one was injured or sick. His feet were up on the seat, knees tucked to his chest. As soon as he noticed Tim staring, he unwrapped his arms from his legs and dropped them back to the floor, giving Tim a glare. "What, Drake?"

Tim scowled and looked away. He didn't want to deal with Damian today. Any day, really. And he supposed the brat had been alright earlier, when they'd been at the movies. He'd even shared his Skittles with Tim, even though he'd claimed it was because he didn't enjoy the flavour. But now? Now they were sitting in a hospital, waiting for Dick to get out of surgery to repair a hole in his stomach because Damian just _had_ to provoke the gun wielding thugs.

As if reading his mind, Damian spoke up for the first time in at least ten minutes. "It's not my fault."

"I'm sorry, what? This could be nothing _but_ your fault." Tim didn't care that he was being insensitive. He _wanted_ Damian to feel horrible, guilty, because maybe it would teach him a lesson.

And if a tiny, vindictive part of him relished it, he didn't have to acknowledge that part.

"No!" Damian said loudly, just loud enough for the nurse at the desk to glare at him. Quieter, barely, Damian said, "If you hadn't been so pathetic, Grayson wouldn't have felt the need to take you to the movies to cheer you up."

Had that been why? Dick had been distant since he'd taken Robin away, but Tim had thought that he'd been too busy with Gotham and Damian to notice Tim. For the argument though it didn't matter. "Dick only got shot because he was trying to protect you, because _you_ had to go and mouth off to the thugs." Tim said all of this calmly, grabbing a magazine about gardening from the pile and flipping through it. "In fact, if the trip to the movies had been about cheering me up, then why did you feel the need to butt in?"

Damian's mouth opened and closed a few times, clearly at a loss for words.

Tim thought back to earlier that day when they'd all been at the manor. Dick had dragged him away from a case file to take him to the movies. They'd just about been out the door when Damian had appeared at the top of the steps, demanding to be taken along. "Face it Damian. You were jealous because Dick wanted to spend time with me." As if Damian hadn't taken enough from Tim. He couldn't even let Tim spend a few hours alone with his brother. "If you hadn't come, Dick could have diffused the situation. If you hadn't spoken up, Dick could have diffused the situation. If Red Hood hadn't shown up, all of us would probably be dead now. There's nothing about this situation that's not your fault." Tim stood up. He didn't want to sit here anymore, not across from Damian, not faced with that _expression_ Damian wore.

He walked to the other end of the waiting room and sat facing the wall. The anatomy poster on the wall kept his attention for the next two hours, until the doctor had come out telling them that Dick was out of danger and that he would be up for visitors when he woke up tomorrow.

Considering how late it was, Tim called Alfred for pickup, just realizing then that they'd forgotten to tell him about the situation.

"It's quite alright Master Tim," Alfred said after Tim apologized. "I understand it's been a stressful few hours. Besides, Master Jason informed me of what he knew and I am on my way."

"Oh jeez, Jason." Tim rubbed a hand over his face. "I forgot about him. How did he look? How was his leg?"

There was a pause, then, "His leg? Was Master Jason injured?"

"He didn't have you look at it?"

Alfred made that one noise, somewhere between a sigh of exhaustion and a groan of annoyance, but subtle enough that he could pretend he hadn't said anything at all. He used it a lot when one of them got injured and didn't do anything about it. "No, unfortunately. He phoned me about Master Dick. I haven't the slightest idea where he is currently."

"Right. I'll go check on him after we get back." Another thing to worry about.

"Very well Master Tim. As long as you get home in time for a full night's sleep. I'll be there in five minutes."

Tim said goodbye and hung up. Then, taking a deep breath, he walked back to where Damian was sitting. The brat looked like he hadn't moved since Tim had left. He did flinch violently when Tim touched his shoulder, enough that Tim felt a little guilty. If what he had said had shaken Damian enough for him not to notice Tim's approach, then maybe he should apologize.

He'd apologize when Damian apologized for trying to kill him three times. "Alfred's on his way. The doctor's say Dick will be fine, barring complications, and we can see him tomorrow."

Damian nodded stiffly and stood, heading for the exit. After a moment, Tim followed. Alfred was waiting in the parking lot, and the ride home was a silent one. When they got back to the manor, Damian headed straight for his room. Tim made for the cave, putting on his Red Robin suit and pulling the trackers he had on Jason up onto the monitor.

Yes, he had trackers on Jason. The man had tried to kill him, twice. The only reason Damian didn't get the same treatment was because as Robin, he was already covered in trackers. That and Dick normally kept a close eye on him.

Of course, planting the trackers didn't mean that Jason wouldn't be able to find them. But he had been making an effort to try and be family again, so he'd left half of them alone. Tim knew that Jason knew they were there. One time, he'd taken them and used them to spell out fun words. Like, "Fuck," and, "Off," and, "Tim." Tim had added surveillance cameras after that, all of which had stickers on the lenses.

But four of the five trackers Jason had had on him today were in his Chinatown safehouse. The fifth was on a rooftop near the theater. So, chances were, Jason was in Chinatown.

He pulled his cowl over his face and headed out, motorcycle roaring across the pavement. Along the way, he stopped a mugging and two car jackings, but things in Gotham seemed quiet tonight. Which was good. With Batman down and Robin not allowed on patrol without him, quiet was exactly what Tim needed.

He heard the familiar engine blocks before it pulled up beside him. Batgirl smiled from her motorcycle, one hand coming up to her ear. "Hey Red Wonder. Going my way?"

Tim crooked a smile at her. "No, probably not. I'm just going to check and make sure Hood's ok. He got shot earlier. Do you want to come with? I have some stuff I have to fill you in on anyways."

"Sure." Steph gestured at the city in general. "Not like there's anything better to do tonight."

By the time they got to the fire escape outside Red Hood's apartment, Batgirl was all caught up. "Damn. A city with no Batman, huh? The crooks are going to go haywire."

"Yeah." Tim squinted at a particularly tricky bit of security. "Once the wound closes up a bit, I'm going to see if Alfred will let him stand on buildings and be intimidating. That should keep everyone settled enough until he fully heals."

"True. Bats did that a few times when I was Robin. Just stood up there and let me break up fights. He said it was because he knew I could handle myself, but I think he was just testing me."

"Probably. But don't worry, he did that with me too. Aha!" With a snap, Tim deactivated the last trap Jason had on his window. "It should be clear."

"Right." Steph glanced at the now-open window. "You should go first, just in case."

Tim just rolled his eyes and climbed it. "According to the trackers, he's in the bedroom." He lead the way, avoiding the center of the room. Jason had pressure sensors there. Steph followed close behind. The door to the bedroom had a trip wire on it, which was easy enough to deactivate. That done, Tim opened the door.

The bedroom was fastidiously clean, as was usual for Jason, except for the drops of blood on the ground leading to the other side of the bed. Tim followed them and there, crushed between the wall and the bedside table, was Jason. He still had his uniform on, but most of the pant leg was cut off, showing the messy stitches he'd tried to put in. He was also far too pale to be healthy.

Tim stuck his hand at the pulse point in Jason's neck. Weak and thready. "Crap. He's lost too much blood." Carefully, he grabbed Jason's ankles and pulled him out from behind the bed. "Steph, give me a hand. We need to get him to the cave."

"We should probably wrap the stitches first. Unless you want road dust getting in it."

"Um. Good point." Tim grabbed the first aid kit from under the bed and pulled out a roll of bandages. Once that was done, Steph ducked under one of Jason's arms, Tim under the other. They were too short to carry Jason properly, so his feet dragged really badly. "Alfred, could you send us the Batmobile? It'll be easier to transport him with that than the bikes."

"Oh dear. Shall I prepare anything else?"

Alfred was far too used to their night life. "Yeah. The stitches he put in aren't great. From the blood spatter in the room, he was probably very low on blood by the time he got here. I'm not sure he cleaned out the wound properly."

While they were talking, Steph rigged up a rudimentary pulley system on the fire escape. Tim put Jason on the coffee table and wrapped their grapple cords around the legs. Carefully, they lowered him to the ground, makeshift stretcher keeping any undue pressure off of Jason.

The Batmobile came to a screeching halt just as they were unloading Jason. They got him settled in the backseat and then let Alfred pilot him home. Tim hopped on his bike, Steph doing the same with hers. "Wanna head back to the cave with me?"

Steph shook her head. "It sounds like drama central in there. I'll visit the hospital tomorrow, but I'm not going to the cave until you boys sort out your boy problems."

Tim thought back to his last conversation with Damian, and about Jason's probable reaction to being back in the cave. "Can't blame you there. See you later Batgirl."

"Catch you later nerd."

Tim followed the Batmobile back to the cave. It was going much slower than normal, taking turns with care rather than drifting it to keep from jostling Jason. Alfred didn't really need to worry. Jason just had a leg wound. It wasn't like a bumpy ride was going to make it worse. But of course, it was Alfred. He would always worry.

Once they got Jason loaded onto a stretcher, Alfred unwound the bandages, sterilized the area and then inspected the stitches. "These are no good. You were right Master Tim, I'll have to redo them. He'll need a blood transfusion as well."

Tim winced. Redoing stitches was always risky, as it added even more holes in the flesh. "I'll give you a hand Alfred."

When they were done tending to Jason, they stuck him in one of the guest rooms. More exhausted than he had any right to be, considering he'd only been up since noon yesterday, Tim dropped into bed immediately and fell asleep.

* * *

Damian sat in his room, wrapped in his quilt, petting Titus. He berated himself for being weak, for hiding like a coward, but he couldn't stop. And so he huddled. Titus was a warm, grounding presence by his side, which made it almost worse. He didn't deserve comfort. He didn't deserve anything.

Drake's words swirled in his head. Drake was an ignoramus on his best day, but Damian couldn't push the words away. _Your fault. Your fault. If you hadn't been there, Dick could have diffused the situation. Your fault._

He burrowed his face deeper in the blankets. When he emerged slightly, just enough to see the clock sitting on his nightstand, hours had passed. He could hear Drake and Pennyworth in the hallway, talking about putting up Todd in one of the guest rooms. So the simpleton had survived. His lip curled, but it was purely habitual. A weight lifted off his shoulders. The bullet that Todd had stepped in front of had been meant for Drake, but it had only been fired because of Damian. He wasn't responsible for the deaths of any of Father's children.

But it was his fault that Grayson and Todd were injured. No matter that he'd tried to pin the blame on Drake. Drake's words had been truthful, it _was_ Damian's fault. His fault, his fault, _his fau_ -

"Master Damian, it's time to wake up." His door clicked open, Pennyworth coming in with another tray of food. Another few hours had passed, and Damian wasn't entirely sure when he'd gone to sleep. He didn't feel like he'd had any. "Master Tim and myself are heading out to visit Master Dick shortly. If you're feeling up to it, I'm sure he would love to see you."

Damian sat up. At the motion, Titus raised his head and gave a particular woof. "I have to go let Titus out." He grabbed the tray as he passed Pennyworth, following Titus' excited bounding. "I'll eat on the back porch."

"Of course Master Damian." Pennyworth closed Damian's bedroom door behind them, then headed for Drake's room. "I shall inform you when we are ready to go."

Damian watched Titus run around the back yard, sniffing at the flowers and lifting his leg on the topiaries. He picked at his food, cutting the pancake into pieces and shifting the fruit around on the plate. He did not want to see Grayson. He did not want to face him. But he couldn't hide from this. He owed it to Grayson to own up to his mistakes.

By the time Titus was ready to go back inside, he had eaten two of the strawberries and one piece of pancake. He dropped the tray on the kitchen counter on the way back in. Titus whined at him when he paused in the doorway. Damian gave him a reassuring pat on the head.

Titus was still trailing him worriedly when he went to the entrance hall. Drake and Pennyworth were already there. Pennyworth looked vaguely annoyed, and Drake looked chastised, his face smoothing out when Damian arrived. "Good. You're here. Let's go."

"Master Tim." The words were neutral, but the tone was chastising.

Drake froze. Shoulders stiff, he turned back to Damian. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it was your fault that Dick got hurt. It wasn't." And then he flung open the door behind him, fleeing to the car.

Pennyworth put a gentle hand on Damian's shoulder, dropping it quickly. "Come along Master Damian. We should get going if we want to get there before the media circus arrives."

The car ride was less silent than the one last night, due solely to Pennyworth's efforts. He chattered on about how Todd had been put into a drugged sleep to allow him time to heal, and to prevent him from fleeing before Pennyworth returned home. Due to that, it would either be a short visit, or Pennyworth could drop him and Drake off and come back to pick them up later.

Damian would probably return with Pennyworth. He would apologize to Grayson for his error, but he had no illusions that Grayson would want him to stick around.

The hospital was just as dreary and white and pristine as it had been yesterday. The only difference was the slight increase in people, due to the daytime hours. It was still early though, so Damian was sure it would get worse as the day went on. Yet another reason to leave with Pennyworth.

After signing in with reception, Drake and Pennyworth headed for Grayson's room. Damian dragged his feet behind them. Grayson's room was a private one, reserved by the hospital for when VIPs were admitted. Father had donated quite a bit to the hospital in return for the private room, but Damian knew that many did not bother.

Grayson was awake when they entered, eagerly eating from a cup of green gelatin. "Hey guys!" The bed had been raised so that he was sitting up, a few pillows propped up behind him for added comfort.

Drake smiled at the greeting. "Hey Dick. Glad to see you're awake."

"Oh yeah, the docs here fixed me up good." He gave his injury a gentle pat. "All stitched up and ready to go!"

"When the doctors release you Master Dick, and not a second sooner." Alfred stepped towards the end of the bed, going through the medical charts. "And no work for another month, according to this."

"Aw, but Alfred!" With one raised eyebrow from Pennyworth, Grayson silenced himself, grabbing another sporkful of gelatin and sticking it in his mouth. "How are you two? Any injuries? I think I remember Jay getting shot?"

Drake nodded. "In the leg. He went all the way to his Chinatown safehouse to put his stitches in and nearly bled out. He's currently drugged up at the manor and with a few new pints of blood in him. Besides him and you, no other injuries."

Grayson turned to Damian then. "How about you Damian? Are you feeling ok?"

"I..." Damian glanced up at Grayson, then focused on where Grayson's feet were under the blanket. "I am uninjured Grayson. I would like to apologize however. It was my fau-"

"Hang on a second Damian." Grayson cut him off. Grayson almost never cut him off. "Alfred, Tim, could we have a minute?"

Grayson was merciful as usual. He didn't want to chastise Damian in front of the help. And Pennyworth. Drake simply nodded. "Sure Dick. We'll grab you something from the vending machine."

"We will do no such thing young sir," Pennyworth said as he opened the door. "That 'food' has no nutritional content whatsoever."

The door closed behind them with an air of finality. Damian kept his eyes locked on Grayson's feet. "Damian? Could you look at me please?"

"Technically, I am looking at you." Grayson's feet were a part of him after all.

Grayson chuckled. "At my face Damian."

Reluctantly, Damian lifted his eyes. Grayson didn't... didn't look angry. He looked... Damian didn't understand the expression on his face.

"Damian. It's not your fault I got shot. It was that Mohawk guy's fault."

"But it is!" Damian stepped forward slightly. How could Grayson think that? "It was my fault that brainless incompetent got angry enough to shoot! If I hadn't been there, you would have been able to walk away without a scratch!" _If you hadn't been there. If you hadn't been there._

"Damian, could you step a bit closer please?"

"Why?" Would Grayson strike him for his mistake? Damian would not blame him if he wished to do so, although it didn't seem like something Grayson would do.

"Because you're just slightly out of arm's reach, and I can't sit up anymore than this." He shot a pointed look in the general direction of his injury.

So it would be physical punishment then. Damian took a step forward, then another when Grayson grabbed his wrist and tugged him. The drugs still lingering in his system meant that there was almost no strength to the pull, or at least not enough to move Damian if he didn't want to move, but he didn't resist.

And then Grayson's arms circled around Damian, hands resting solidly on his back. "Dami." And Damian felt the blood rush to his face at the word. For Grayson, it was probably just a shortening of his name. But 'dami' meant 'my blood' in Arabic, an incredibly affectionate endearment, equating Damian himself with Grayson's blood, a precious resource required for life. "Dami, I don't blame you for this. It's not your fault."

"How can you say that," Damian said into Grayson's shoulder, voice tighter than he wanted it to be. "If I hadn't taunted that goon-"

"Yeah, maybe you shouldn't have said that." Damian froze at Grayson's words. "And next time, you won't. But Damian, you didn't pull the trigger. You didn't force me to jump in front of the bullet. Heck, if I had been thinking, I could have just pulled you out of the way." Grayson's hand started making slow lazy circles between Damian's shoulder blades. "Dami, it's not your fault I got hurt. And you heard Alfred. I'll be fine in a month."

"But it was-"

" _Not_ your fault," Grayson said firmly. "And I will do everything I can to convince you of that. It wasn't your fault we got jumped after the movies, it wasn't your fault we didn't have what those thugs were expecting, it wasn't your fault I got shot. It was the thugs' fault for having high expectations and thin skins. Because it can't have been the first time someone has implied that guy looks like a pig."

Damian let out a tiny chuckle. "He did. His nose was all flat and everything."

"Yeah, he did." Grayson pulled on Damian until he got the hint, climbing onto the medical bed beside him, being careful not to jostle any tubes or wires. Once Damian was fully settled, Grayson stuck his arms around Damian again, and Damian settled in for what he knew would be a long hug. Grayson had thought he had been subtle, all those months ago. When Batman and Robin had first flew, Grayson had given him quick shoulder pats. Those quick shoulder pats lengthened, until Grayson could sling an entire arm around Damian's shoulders unexpectedly, and Damian wouldn't react as if attacked. Those had become one armed hugs, then quick full hugs. Now, Damian could endure long stretches of affection from Grayson without panicking.

"Dami," and there was that nickname again, "I just want you to know that I'll always love you. You're my brother, like Tim and Jason are, and nothing can change that."

"I know Grayson." Deep inside, that voice still swirled. _Your fault. Your fault._ But Damian chose to ignore it. He never listened to a word Drake said before, he wasn't going to start now.

 _I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it was your fault that Dick got hurt. It wasn't._

Maybe he'd listen to _one_ thing Drake said.

* * *

Alfred was unsurprised when he returned to Dick's room and the oldest and youngest of his charges were curled up on the bed together. Damian had been morose this morning, and Alfred had known he could have done little to cheer the boy up. However, five minutes in Dick's company had done wonders.

Damian flinched slightly when he and Tim entered, looking like he was ready to jump out of the bed. Dick simply tightened his arms. Alfred smiled. "So I can see that Master Damian is not returning with me to the manor. Master Tim?"

"Oh, I'll come with you Alfred." Tim eyed the two on the bed, a hint of loneliness in his eyes. "I've got some cases to work on anyways."

"Oh, no Tim, stay!" One of Dick's arms uncurled from Damian, reaching towards Tim. He didn't even come close to grabbing him, but for Dick, it was often the intention that mattered. "There's plenty of room on the bed, and I know you've got your laptop with you. Don't leave me here to be bored!"

Tim looked at his bag, where his laptop with the hundreds of hours of shows downloaded onto it was. "Fine. I can stay I suppose." He walked around to the other side of the bed, climbing up beside Dick.

Alfred smiled at the three of them. He pulled a camera from his pocket and snapped a picture, camera disappearing before any of them noticed it was there. "I shall return later to pick you up Masters Damian and Tim. If you want me to bring anything Master Dick, let me know."

"Will do Alfred!"

Alfred stopped by the nursing station on his way out, to thank the nurses for taking care of his charges, and to apologize in advance for any trouble they might cause. Then he returned to the car and drove himself home.

Jason was still out when he got there, the blood transfusion nearly complete. Alfred sat with him until the bag was empty, then pinched the tube and removed the needle. It had taken two pints, but Jason was finally starting to look his normal colour again. He left to go make tea. By the time he returned, Jason was starting to stir.

"Wha... Alfie?"

"Indeed Master Jason. You gave us quite a scare." He grabbed the glass of water he had brought up with the tea, holding the straw to Jason's lips. "Here, drink this." Once Jason had drained half the glass, Alfred fixed him with a stern look. "Master Jason, why did you not come to the manor for treatment? Your stitches were horrendous, and you left bits of trouser leg in the wound."

"Can't. Not... part'f th' fam'ly yet." Jason was not at all awake yet, but Alfred had to ask his questions now, before his walls came back up. "Gotta earn th't back."

Alfred ran a hand through Jason's hair. He stared for a moment at the bit just above his forehead, where snow white roots were starting to show under black dye. "Silly boy. You can't earn it back if you never lost it."

"Did though."

How was it that his charges got more stubborn the more injured they were? "Master Jason. As the only fully coherent person in this room, I do hope you'll listen when I say that you have been a part of this family ever since Batman brought you here."

"That w's dumb. Stole his tires. Could've robbed you rich cats blind."

"Indeed, but you didn't." Not for lack of trying however. Alfred had lost count of how much silver flatware he'd found in Jason's bedroom. "Now, no more argument young man. Rest. And perhaps when you're feeling better, I'll allow you to assist me in preparing supper."

Jason smiled a bit, closing his eyes and leaning into the hand Alfred still had in his hair. "M'kay Alfie. See y'in the m'rnin'." It took a minute or two, but Jason's breathing eventually leveled out.

Alfred ran his hands through his hair one more time, then sat back in his chair and grabbed his tea. It was cooler now, closer to lukewarm than hot, but that was fine. He'd had many a hot drink cool in the years he'd worked for the Batman, and while he would always prefer his tea piping hot, he was rather growing fond of the cold variety.

He grabbed the book Tim had dropped on the nightstand for Jason. Sense and Sensibility. Something his family could use more of. With a sigh of contentment, he opened the book to the first page and started reading.

* * *

 **AN: For Gen Batfam Week's prompt Hurt/Comfort.**

 **Based on Arrowcomix's fanart for the same prompt. Check it out on her tumblr!**


	5. Chapter 5

**What Names Make of Us**

* * *

The girl roamed up and down the ruined streets. It was difficult to move, but the woods had been difficult too, and the boat. She went quickly, carefully, making sure not to slip and fall. She didn't know if the box she carried would break if she did. She did not want to find out.

The familiar building appeared when she turned the corner. The one with the kind lady in it. The lady with the words. She smiled at the sight, but did not drop her guard. She had been attacked here before. Today could be no different.

Today was different. She got to the building and climbed the outside. The box was slung on her back. The man who had given it to her had said words that she hadn't understood, but he had _said_ that it was a precious box. He had been dressed differently than everyone else in the broken city. Cleaner. Black and white instead of dirty colours. She had liked his face. It was a kind face.

She got to her window and pushed it open. She did not enter. Once she had entered and the building had attacked her. She would wait until the lady said it was safe.

At the kind lady's gesture, she entered. The building did not attack her. There were three other people in the building. Tall dark man with outward sorrow and hidden joy. Tall less dark man with outward joy and hidden sorrow. Bright boy with bright curiosity and a sad smile. She had seen them before with the kind faced man. She trusted them, like she trusted the lady.

The kind lady smiled at her as she took the box. "Thank you Cassandra." The kind lady had been the first person to call her that. She liked it. Someday, she would like to be able to say it too. "I'm sorry you had to go get it, but these three were caught up in a territory dispute." She didn't understand most of the words. 'Sorry' she knew, and 'territory'. She saw the injuries on the men and bright boy and the tears in their clothes. She did not understand why the kind lady was sorry. But the kind lady was smiling, so it couldn't be a big sorry. Just a little sorry.

She also did not understand why the lady handed the box back to her. Was she supposed to deliver it somewhere else? Was the kind lady sorry for not giving her good directions? No, the kind lady always gave good directions. She looked at the kind lady in confusion. The kind lady smiled. "Open it." Her hands made motions like she was opening the box, but the box was in her hands.

Still confused, she opened the box. It was full of black fabric. Now curious, she pulled out the smaller fabric on top. It was the mask that other lady wore, the one who was always ready to fight, who made the kind lady angry. She didn't know why the fight lady made the kind lady angry. She thought maybe the fight lady had stolen something from the kind lady.

Stolen this. This outfit. The kind lady was never as angry when the fight lady was wearing purple.

Quickly, she looked back up at the kind lady. But the lady didn't seem angry that she was holding the outfit. She looked very happy. And proud. "This used to be my costume, my name. It's yours, if you want it."

She looked between the outfit and the people. It looked very similar to the outfits the men and bright boy wore. Not just in colour, but feel. She had seen people before, who wore the same kind of outfit. They always walked with a sense of belonging. If she had this, would she belong too?

She'd like that. The last time someone had looked at her like she had belonged had been before she had stolen a man's life. Even now, she could feel the slowing of his pulse, see the light leave his eyes.

No, that is not a thing to think about now. She looked at the people in front of her and knew that they would never ask her to steal like that. And she also knew that she would do everything she was able to keep the light in their eyes. She pulled on the mask.

She worried for a moment, if that was not what the lady had wanted, but through the dark lenses of the mask, she saw the lady's smile grow. "Welcome to the family. Batgirl." Everyone was smiling. Even the tall dark man. His face was quiet, but he _screamed_ happiness and pride, almost as much as the lady.

Batgirl. The way the lady said it made it sound similar to Cassandra. Batgirl. She liked that one too. Maybe she would get to say it too, someday.

* * *

Words flooded into her mind, more than she had known existed. She didn't notice as they pushed out the motion. She was busy marveling at the sudden understanding she had. Words, words, words. She didn't know all of them. The man who had given her the words said a few that she didn't know, hadn't learned. But she could figure them out, because the words before and the words after made sense now.

And she understood why the lady – Barbara was her name – had insisted she learn words, and gotten frustrated when Batgirl hadn't understood. In just a few sentences – which she could speak now – she had conveyed more information than she had been able to before. She never would have been able to understand what the psychic had done to her without the words.

She had a name. She hadn't understood the concept of those before. Barbara was Barbara just as Batgirl was Batgirl and Cassandra both.

She had lost her ability though. She could no longer _understand_ people. She could no longer see an attack in a muscle twitch, nor an intent. The words had pushed all of that out. They tumbled through her brain, loud and disordered and insistent on taking her attention. She could not quiet them. With the words, she could not fight. She could not be useful.

With a heavy heart, she went back to the Clocktower. Even knowing the name of the building didn't lift her spirits.

Barbara was there, as she always was. "Batgirl? Are you alright?"

With a sigh, Batgirl pulled off her mask. "Barbara..." How to say this?

Barbara gasped, breaking her train of thought. Words were so easily distracted. "Did you just speak?"

Oh. "Yes. There was a psychic-" She cut off when Barbara rolled towards her and pulled her down into a hug.

"Cass, this is wonderful!" Then Barbara pulled away, concern on her face. And it was a relief to still be able to see that. "You said it was a psychic? Are you alright? What did he do to you?" Her hands went to either side of Batgirl's face, as if she would be able to see what the psychic had done.

Batgirl thought back to the psychic's explanation. "I saved him, and he wanted to thank me. But my brain was weird, so he... 'rewired' it. I..." She hesitated. "Barbara, I can't _see_ anymore." And one of Barbara's hands came up, waving in front of her face. Batgirl almost laughed. "No, I can see like that. But I can't see..." She couldn't explain it. She pulled out of Barbara's grip, raising her hands. How to...?

She lifted Barbara's hand so it was flat and the palm was facing her. Then she placed her fist against it. It was how she used to say hello, and explain how she _talked_. Maybe it could explain this.

Understanding lit in Barbara's face. "You can't understand people's body language anymore?" Body language? That was what it was called? It seemed like a small term, but it described it perfectly. Batgirl nodded. "Oh, Cass. I'm sorry."

"I... I feel weird. Like I should be able to see like I used to, like I know how, but I just... _can't_." She felt like part of her had been blocked off, sectioned away. Like someone had given her a feast, but forgotten to give her water.

Barbara smiled sadly. "I know the feeling. Before this," she knocked on her chair, "I could dance, and run, and fly like you do. And I loved every second of it." She leaned back in her chair and gazed down at her legs, sad, but a long-ago sadness. "I've never gotten over it, but I've accepted it. Accepted being a little broken."

Batgirl stared at Barbara. She had never considered... "If it's any... I don't know the word." She knew words, but not all of them. She didn't know which one to use here.

"Can you describe it?"

Hm. "Make you feel better?"

Barbara thought for a moment. "Consolation, I think."

That sounded about right. "If it's any cons- consolation, when I first saw you, you never looked broken." She thought back to that day in the Clocktower, stealing cans of food from Barbara's cupboard. "You looked strong. You looked brave, and kind."

As she spoke, Barbara started crying. Batgirl jumped, startled. She had only seen Barbara cry once, when No Man's Land was lifted and Gotham could go back to being a proper city full of people. Had she done something to upset Barbara? Her words were still new. Had she used them wrong?

But Barbara was also smiling. "Thank you. I needed to hear that."

Batgirl smiled weakly. She hadn't done something wrong. "Barbara?"

"Hm?"

"You told me things. I saw that they were stories, but I couldn't understand them. Could you tell them to me now?" She had heard the word 'Batgirl' in many of them, and 'Robin' and 'Batman' and 'Nightwing'. She felt like they were important, and would like to hear them.

"Of course!" Barbara led her to the living room, and transferred herself to the couch. Batgirl sat beside her. "When I was about your age, all I wanted was to be a cop, like my dad. But he wouldn't let me, said it was too dangerous. And then, I went to a costume party, dressed as Batman. It was great, until Killer Moth crashed the party..."

* * *

Cassandra walked down the stairs, humming a song she had heard on the radio before leaving her apartment. It had a good dancing beat. She'd have to ask Tim or Barb what it was called so she could buy the CD.

She winced a bit as she pushed open the door. She'd been fighting a cult of... something or other, she hadn't been listening, a few nights ago. Of course, one of them had used magic to freeze her in place. And then stabbed her. Robin had knocked the magic user out, and once the rest of the cult had been out cold, rushed her back to her apartment for stitches.

She'd insisted she was fine, but Barb had forbidden her from patrol. And since taking the Batgirl suit away had never stopped Cass before, she'd had Alfred stop by Cass's apartment every night. Anyone else, she would have been able to slip by. Robin? No problem. Nightwing? Easy. Alfred? No one got past Alfred. He was a deadly combination of baked goods and pleasantness that was too perfect to be coincidence.

And she'd thought he'd been kind. He was, but now she saw him for what he was. Cunning, manipulative, and ruthless. She hoped she'd never get on his bad side.

So, no patrol. Not until her stitches came out, at least, although Barbara would probably insist on another week to be safe. Cass wrinkled her face at the thought.

"Just take some time to be Cass," Barbara had said the first and only time Cass had tried to sneak past Alfred. "I know you don't have much interest in an identity besides Batgirl, but it's important. You're Batgirl, but you're also Cassandra. You should see what she's like."

Which made no sense. Cass was Batgirl was Cass. But since she had nothing else to do during the day besides trying (and failing) to read, she was exploring her neighbourhood.

Her first stop was a place she'd found yesterday. A little ice cream shop, shoved between two office buildings. She didn't know what it was called; even if she could read, the sign was too worn out to make sense of the letters. But it was a block from her apartment and it had the best chocolate ice cream Cass had ever tried.

"Oh! Cass!"

The voice sounded familiar. Cass turned, smiling when she caught sight of the familiar boy. Even without the red vest, he was completely recognizable. "Hi Ro-"

He held his finger to his lips and made a shushing sound. "Not outside of the costume, remember?"

Right. Secret identity. She still didn't see the point. "Right. Um." He'd never told her his name. Really, the only 'real' name she knew was Batman's. But that was only because Bruce Wayne looked exactly the same, no matter how clumsy he tried to be.

"Oh, right. Um, Alvin." That was a lie. She crossed her arms and jutted out her hip, raising one eyebrow. She'd seen Stephanie do it, and it always conveyed disbelief so well.

He just grinned at her. "Sorry. I'll keep bugging him." Him being Batman. "He won't let me tell anyone. It's so infuriating."

"I heard." Barb had told her about Robin's constant difficulties in Young Justice, being the only member who didn't technically exist. "Just tell Bruce that if I can keep his secret, I can keep yours."

"Sure." Her words took a moment to sink in, and when they did, he gaped at her. "How...? When?!"

Had Robin known who Batman was? He had to. Barbara knew. Cass hoped she hadn't just spilled Batman's secret. That would be the exact opposite of what she wanted. "When he went on trial. He was all over the television."

She could see it click in Robin's mind, that little expression he got when he detectived something. Was detectived a word? She would have to ask. If it wasn't, it should be. It was a good word. "Right. And you would have seen how he moved."

Cass nodded. "Yup." She poked 'Alvin' in the side. "I was going to get ice cream. Want to come?"

"Yes!" 'Alvin' lit up at the idea. Together, they headed for her ice cream place. "'The Ice Cream Social', huh? Good name."

How had he read that? She looked up at the sign again. The words were still very faded. She squinted at it for a minute before shaking her head. Someday, she'd be able to read the sign, no matter how faded the words were.

They entered, passing the frozen yogurt machine on the wall and heading straight for the ice cream counter. "Hello!"

The man behind the counter smiled at her. "Hello. Back again?"

She grinned. Once she'd found the place yesterday, she'd been back twice more. It was really good ice cream. "Yes. I brought a friend!"

"And hello to you sir. What can I get you kids today?"

"Two scoops of chocolate." Cass said immediately. Maybe she should try something different though. "On a waffle cone. With sprinkles and peanuts." And then belatedly, she added, "Please." The man chuckled and dipped his scooper into the chocolate, rolling the ice cream into a beautiful ball.

'Alvin' was looking closely at the vanilla ice cream. "I don't mean to be rude, but is this made with real vanilla, or artificial?"

"Real." The man handed Cass her cone and she took it eagerly. "It's a bit more expensive, but I think it's worth it."

'Alvin' still looked skeptical, but he nodded. "I'll take two scoops in a sugar cone please."

They had paid, left, and gotten halfway to the nearest park bench before 'Alvin' tried his ice cream. "Wow. That is surprisingly good for a hole in the wall parlour."

Cass was almost done her first scoop. The sprinkles and nuts had been a great idea. Next time, she was trying chocolate syrup as well. "It has the best ice cream." They sat on a bench that was secluded enough not to be overheard. "Did you need something?" Robin didn't normally come and find her during the day. He never had, if she was being accurate. Being accurate was very important, Batman often said.

"Nah, not really." 'Alvin' leaned back on the bench and took a large lick of his ice cream. "Babs was wondering how being Cass was going."

"Hm." She considered, finishing her first scoop and starting the second while she thought. "Not as bad as I thought. It's boring, but in a good way. It'll be bad boring in a few days though."

'Alvin' nodded, and continued working on his ice cream. Cass used the silence to think. Barbara had given her Batgirl. How could she be anything else? Batgirl was motion, and strength, and trust, and family. Batgirl was good, and innocence. Batgirl was everything she had lost when Cain had put that pink dress on her, and put her hair in two tails, and told her to kill a man.

But...

(Be accurate. An inaccurate report could cause serious harm or death to someone, simply because they didn't have all the information.)

Barbara had also given her Cassandra. Barbara had given her Cassandra before she'd given her Batgirl. It was the first name she'd ever had. But who was Cassandra?

"Just take some time to be Cassandra." Barb had said. "You should see what she's like."

What was Cassandra like? Cassandra...

Cassandra liked chocolate ice cream. She'd never had ice cream on patrol before. Stephanie had taken her out for burgers once though. And Cassandra liked music, and dancing to music. And Cassandra was friends with Barb, just like Batgirl was friends with Oracle. And Cassandra rather liked this park bench. There was a tree big enough to give them shade behind the bench, and a small pond nearby, and frogs singing in the pond.

Maybe Barb had a point.

"Your ice cream is melting." 'Alvin' pointed out.

Quickly, Cass licked up the melted ice cream running down her cone before it could touch her hand. Then she ate the rest of it, savouring every bite. She had a mission now. She had to find out what the name that Barbara had given her meant. She knew what the name meant, Steph had looked it up once. Unheeded Prophetess. But Cass wanted to know what it meant to _her_ , what Cassandra was when she wasn't Batgirl.

She popped the tip of her cone in her mouth, then turned to 'Alvin', very ready to go find more things about herself. 'Alvin' was just starting his second scoop. She frowned. "You eat slow. How are we supposed to have a good boring day if you're going to spend the entire time eating?"

"This is part of the good boring." He took another slow lick of his ice cream. "Just sit back, relax. Do some people watching."

"Some what?"

"Look at the people. If you want to make detective practice out of it, try and figure out where they came from and where they're going. Or what their job is. Or just watch them. Up to you."

So Cass did. The lady with the stroller was heading home from the park. That couple had just come from The Ice Cream Social. She recognized the perfect scoops. That man was coming back from grocery shopping. That man and his dog were going through garbages for bottles. They had a very impressive stack in their cart. That lady and her dog were heading to play fetch.

That man looked depressed. With his rumpled suit and large cardboard box, she thought maybe he'd just been fired. Those three kids were very excited, but the fourth one was dragging her feet as she walked. She was soaking wet. Maybe she'd fallen in a pond? Those two guys looked shady. Every once in a while, someone would approach them and some subtle hand movements would happen. They were probably drug dealers. That woman was sitting on another park bench and rubbing circles on her tummy. Every once in a while she would look down at it and smile. She was probably pregnant, but it was too early for her to be showing.

Cassandra thought she liked people watching too.

* * *

Cassandra Cain snarled and punched the wall. She had not wanted this name. She rejected it. After what her father and Deathstroke had done to her...

She punched the wall again. She was going to kill both of them. Then her sisters would be safe and those two monsters would never hurt anyone ever again. She'd already gotten the information she needed from the Batcave. She knew where to find him. She pulled on her cape and mask and headed out.

But when she got there, it was Deathstroke and her sisters, waiting for her. Her sisters put up a fight. They were very well trained, nearly as well trained as she was. But she had been fighting for much longer than any of them, than all of them combined. Cain had tried to make an army of Cassandras. He had made an army alright, but none were her equal.

They did accomplish one thing though. While she was fighting her sisters, Deathstroke had gotten away. That was fine. Deathstroke could wait. It was Cain she wanted.

Once all but one of her sisters were unconscious, she stepped on the last girl's shoulder, pinning her to the ground. "Where is David Cain?"

The girl just snarled. "You're going to have to do better than that."

Cassandra Cain pulled a batarang from her belt. "Fine." She threw it hard enough for it to embed itself in her shoulder, despite the blunt edges. The girl screamed. Another batarang, this time in the upper arm. Then another one, an inch lower.

She had just gotten to the elbow when the girl cried out, "He's in Platinum Flats! He said he was going to destroy the heroes with one shot!"

"Thank you." Cassandra Cain then kicked the girl in the head, knocking her out. Almost as an afterthought, she pulled out the batarangs and bandaged the wounds. They were deep, but not deep enough to need stitches.

Platinum Flats was a new community, built just this year specifically with the comfort and safety of the people living there. As a result, the apartments mostly looked the same, and the entire city was laid out in a type of pattern. There was a hotel every this number of blocks, and four major shopping centers, one in each corner of the city. There was even a coffee shop every five blocks. It was a boring city, with none of the life of Gotham. But it was where Barbara had set up shop. Her Birds were investigating something weird about the city.

If David Cain wanted to destroy the hero community in one shot, there was no better target than Oracle. Oracle was the information nexus. She, more than Batman or Superman or even Wonder Woman, kept the heroes connected. Without her, the Justice League, the JSA and every other community would be crippled.

She'd only been to the Birds' building once, but it was enough. Barb had bought the building as soon as it had been completed, and then done her own renovations. But Cass didn't know if those renovations were done, or if they included bulletproof glass. Not that it would matter. David Cain had taught her all about guns, years ago. And that sniper rifle was strong enough to punch through any kinds of glass, bulletproof or not.

She grappled across the street, to the building Cain was sitting on top of. Sitting on top of and pointing a gun at the only woman to have ever cared for Cass. Despite laying down for better stability, it was nothing for Cain to roll to his feet, dodging her kick. "I suppose it's too much to hope you're here to help me?"

After all he'd done, he expected her to lie down and submit. "I'm not." He couldn't see her face, but she hoped he'd picked up some of what he'd taught her. Her every line screamed _furious_. "I'm here to kill you!"

He smirked and aimed his gun. She leapt at him, just barely managing to change the trajectory when it went off. She could see Barbara across the street look up in shock as the bullet landed in her carpet, and move immediately away from the windows. She kicked the gun out of his hands, and it skidded onto the rain soaked rooftop.

He was saying words to her, but she ignored them. She ignored everything but her mission. Finish him. Make up for what she'd done, what he'd made her do.

Be done. Done with him. Done with everything.

He kept trying to speak, but she didn't let him. She swiped his ankles out from under him, leaping onto his chest and punching him once, twice, three times in the face. He roared and threw her off, still trying to speak, so she hit him in the throat. Now he would be the silent one.

"All the years you trained me, all the years you taught me what you wanted me to know, you never asked what I wanted." It shouldn't be this easy to beat him. Perhaps he was just getting old. Perhaps she had surpassed him. "I wanted to read!" She stomped down for emphasis, breaking most of the bones in his right hand. He would never shoot without shaking again. "I wanted to speak!" She hoisted him up by his shirt and punched him.

"I wanted a father!"

WHAM

"I wanted a family!"

WHAM

"I wanted somewhere to _belong_!"

WHAM

Blood bubbled out of his mouth, words trying to form around broken teeth. "Cassandra... listen..."

"Never again." She kicked him, a high kick to the face. "And you have no right to that name."

Her kick sent him over the side of the building. Cassandra Cain stood over him, his left hand the only thing between him and a thirty story fall. She raised a foot.

She wanted this. She wanted to kill him.

But the pain wouldn't go away. She wouldn't become him, a monster who gets paid to take life. She would be worse, a person fallen, corrupted. The Cassandra she had been before would choose to become a monster. The Cassandra she had been before would die. Only Cain would be left.

She lowered her foot. David Cain was speaking, but she wasn't listening. She moved a few steps away and took off her cowl. She wouldn't kill him, but she wouldn't save him either. She was making this choice. Not Batgirl.

If he pulls himself up, he goes to prison. It was as simple as that.

She had broken his other hand. There was no way for him to pull himself off.

She heard his fingers slip off the ledge, but she was already diving forward, grabbing for it. He nearly dragged her down with him, but a line wrapped around her ankle. A familiar voice called out, "Batman! Hurry!"

Batman, tall and dark with hidden joy and outward sorrow, rappelled down the building, just enough to wrap another line around Cain's chest.

Five minutes later, Cain was unconscious with a tranquilizer that would keep him out for at least four hours. Batman took no chances though. He never did. He tied Cain tight. Very tight. "Batgirl, I know it feels like your mission isn't over."

It wasn't. Cain was still alive. She had come into this with conviction. She had promised she was going to kill David Cain, and he was still alive. He was still alive.

She said nothing, so Batman continued. "All of us feel the same way, because the mission is never over." That was helpful. "If you choose to clean up his mess, that's a worthy mission. If you choose to put criminals behind bars, that's one less on the streets to hurt others. But it's your choice. It's always your choice."

He took a deep breath. Cass frowned. He was... nervous? Batman didn't do nervous. But he was.

"Just like this is your choice. Something I should have done long ago." Batman glanced at Robin, who was very conspicuously giving them space, telling Oracle it was all clear. "If you want, when we get back to Gotham, we can start adoption proceedings."

What?

He seemed flustered, talking fast, trying to justify his words as soon as they came out. "You're one of us. You always have been. And I'm sorry I didn't let you know before. I just want to make sure you'll always have a real family as long as I'm around."

Cass grinned widely and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around Bruce's chest. "Yes."

And they stood in the rain, smiling and crying.

* * *

Cassandra Wayne sat on the roof and thought. She was going out tonight, as Batgirl. But right now, she wanted to sit and think. For right now, sitting and thinking was good.

It was the anniversary of the day she'd first become Batgirl. And she wanted to think about what that meant to her. She knew what Batgirl meant to other people. For Barbara, Batgirl was freedom, and youth, and hope, and joy. She'd met her first love as Batgirl, she'd found her calling as Batgirl. She'd lost everything as Batgirl.

For most of the family, Batgirl was trust, and dependability. Batgirl was an ally, a friend, someone to count on when things were at their worst.

For Cass...

Cassandra was a small child who watched as a man died. Cassandra was a girl experiencing ice cream for the first time. Cassandra was a girl who was learning what parents were supposed to be, from Barb and from Bruce. Cassandra was a girl who had nearly fallen, but who had caught herself. Cassandra was a girl who had been crying out for a family, and who had finally been heard.

Batgirl wasn't innocence. Batgirl was stronger than that. Batgirl didn't turn away from the evils of the world so as to be uncorrupted by them. Batgirl faced the evils head on, bathed herself in the blood, mud and sweat of battle, so as to save those too innocent to save themselves. Batgirl was strong, and good, and sometimes she fell, but she always picked herself back up.

There would be no celebration for Batgirl today. No one else had marked the date. The only reason Cass knew the date was because she'd gone through Barbara's No Man's Land journal and done a lot of counting to figure it out.

And now. Cassandra Wayne stood up and climbed down from the roof. She didn't know who Cassandra Wayne would be from here on. All she knew is that she rejected the name of Cain, and all that came with it. She could speak. She would learn to read. She had somewhere she belonged, where she had a family. Cassandra Wayne would be similar to her as she had been, but also completely different. And she couldn't wait.

* * *

 **AN: For Batfam Week's fifth prompt Legacy.**

 **I had a section of story that followed Cass and David's fight from the comics more closely, but it ended up being too wordy and not what I wanted from the story, so I scrapped it. I hope you like the paraphrased version!**

 **Read and enjoy!**


	6. Chapter 6

**The Ship Has NOT Sailed**

* * *

It started innocuously enough.

Jason had been in his favourite used bookstore, grabbing a few books for his new safehouse. It didn't and would never have the library that his main safehouse had, but he didn't like having no books. If he did go down with an injury, he'd need something to read while he recovered.

If he had gone a half hour earlier like he had wanted, he could have avoided the whole thing. But Mrs. Dunfield had needed a hand with her groceries, and then she'd insisted on having him taste test all of the baking she'd done for her grandkids' visit this evening. So he'd gotten to the bookstore a half hour later than he'd expected, and ran into Cass.

He hadn't had much interaction with his quite-unquote "sister". None actually. No interaction. He knew what she looked like though, thanks to extensive hacking of the Batcomputer and Barbara actually letting him hack the Batcomputer with little more than gentle chastisement. And she looked torn between Sense and Sensibility and Wuthering Heights.

On one hand, he could totally sneak out and come back to his bookstore in a few hours. There was a cheap diner down the street he'd wanted to reacquaint himself with anyways. On the other hand, no one should have to read Wuthering Heights.

He walked up behind her, making sure to make enough noise to let her know he was there. Again, he'd never met Cass, but he knew that sneaking up on her was a terrible idea. Reaching over her shoulder, Jason poked at Sense and Sensibility. "That one."

She turned around, giving him a quick once over. He knew what she could do and she wondered how much she had read off of him in that one glance. Enough to know he wasn't really in a killing rage kind of mood apparently. She slid Wuthering Heights back into its place, dropping the hand carrying Sense and Sensibility to her side. "Thanks."

Jason nodded, going back to his own book shopping. And even though he'd made sure she knew he was there, she didn't seem to want to extend the same courtesy to him. Four aisles over, he turned around having plucked a Japanese copy of the Tale of Genji from the shelves to find Cass directly behind him. "Holy fucking-!" His hand clawed at where his holster would be, if he had it on him, which he didn't. "Don't do that!"

"Sorry." She didn't look sorry, but he could be biased. Batman was never fucking sorry, so why would anyone associated with him be? Yeah, probably biased. "What are you getting?"

"Hm?" He looked down at the book in his hands, stroking a thumb over the battered cover. "Oh, Tale of Genji. I've read it in English already, but I wanted to give the original lan- hey! No, why are you following me?" Jason glared at her, clutching his book to his chest and hiding the cover. "You've got your book. Leave me alone."

Cass didn't move forward, although it looked like she wanted to. Instead, she stayed a few feet away and swayed on the spot a little. "You suggested this one. I wanted to suggest one too." She held out a copy of Percy Jackson and the Olympians. "Steph gave me this when I was learning to read. It's a good book."

"I know. I've read it." After he'd moved into the manor, and once Bruce found out that he liked to read, Bruce had bought every single book series that a preteen boy might find interesting. Most of them he hadn't particularly taken to, and had gotten donated to various homeless shelters. Jason had liked the Percy Jackson series though.

Cass frowned and walked away, returning a moment later with another book. "This is the next book in the series." The Sea of Monsters was shoved into Jason's face.

"Read that one too. All five books." And Jason didn't really like the smile that crept over Cass's face at that.

Deciding it was well past time to beat a hasty retreat, he waited until she'd disappeared into another bookshelf and made for the cashier. He was just pulling out his wallet to pay when someone poked his back with the top of a book. With a sigh, he turned around.

Without preamble, Cass dropped a stack of five books onto the counter. "He'll take these too," she said to the cashier. At Jason's weary nod, the cashier started typing in the prices. To Jason, Cass said, "This is the next series. They're also good."

Jason picked up one of the books the cashier was finished with, giving the back cover a skim. "If you insist." He put it back on the pile.

"They really are good sir." The cashier moved all of Jason's books into a bag. "My favourites are the Magnus Chase books, but Heroes of Olympus is so good. That'll be $45.75 sir."

Jason handed over some cash, thanked the cashier and walked out. He'd barely gotten half a block when he felt the distinctive press of a book in his spine. Again. "What?"

Cass poked him with Sense and Sensibility again, this time in the arm. "I'm hungry. Take me to lunch."

"What? No. Get your own food."

She frowned at him. "I don't know the area. Take me to lunch little brother!"

"I'm not your little brother."

"Yes, you are."

Jason glared down at her. "I'm bigger than you."

Cass smiled wide. "I'm older. Now let's go!"

"Fine!" Clearly, she wasn't going to give up. Better to indulge her and bolt when she least expected it. "But you're paying." The five extra books had taken pretty much all of his cash, and he wasn't going back to his safehouse for more, not with her following him. He really didn't want to have to move again.

She smiled and nodded, and followed him into the run down diner he'd been planning on going to for lunch. He ordered his usual burger and fries, and she had the same.

It ended up being a pleasant lunch. They'd talked about books they'd read, and Cass's difficulties with reading. Jason made a note to get an audio book version of Sense and Sensibility later, so she could read and listen at the same time. It might help. Surprisingly, she hadn't mentioned their nightly activities or Jason's less-than-moral ways of dealing with crooks. And after Cass finished her food and dropped some cash on the table, she'd smiled and said she'd see him later tonight.

He changed his patrol route for the evening, but she still managed to find him within the hour. That patrol was one of the best he'd had in years. Luckily, they didn't run into anyone that didn't deserve to keep breathing, because that would have put a damper on their burgeoning relationship. But it was a good evening, and Jason ended up picking up a few moves from her. Around three in the morning, they stopped for chili dogs, and went home.

The next morning, Jason left his apartment. He had to go to the grocery store for some cat food for the cat that sometimes visited his fire escape. He walked down the stairs, said hello to Mrs. Dunfield and Mrs. Nardovino, helped the super with the sink in Mr. O'Neil's apartment, and then made for the lobby. He was just opening the heavy wooden door when Andy shouted out, "Pete, no!" Too late. The door swung open and he was blinded by lights and deafened by shouting.

"Sir, what's your connection to Cassandra Wayne?"

"What's your name?"

"Are you her boyfriend?"

"Can you validate the rumors of a relationship between Cassandra and Timothy?"

SLAM.

Jason leaned against the door, trying to get his breathing under control. Slowly, that indescribable feeling that felt similar to an adrenaline rush but not quite settled down, until it was just a humming under his skin. "Andy," he choked out, "why is there a crowd of people outside the door?"

The doorman looked through the peephole at the crowd. "They've been there for hours. Here," he passed Jason one of Gotham's many rags. "Front page."

Jason grabbed the paper, the Gotham Inquirer, and stared at it with a sinking feeling in his gut. Above the center fold was a picture of him and Cass at the restaurant, taken from across the street, and the words, "GOTHAM'S PRINCESS: LOVE AFFAIR?!"

Under the fold was a picture of the president (the caption directing readers to an article on page four, praising his latest screw up), a couple pictures of celebrities and their latest fashion faux pas, and a few lines of summary for the article with Jason's face on it. "Cassandra Wayne, daughter of the Prince of Gotham Bruce Wayne, was seen at Greasy Steve's on 49th yesterday afternoon. Our intrepid reporters got close enough to hear Wayne say, "See you tonight," to our mystery man. Has this man stolen the elusive Wayne's heart? Find out more on page 2!"

Jason crumpled the paper in his hands. "Fuck my life." The door behind him jumped as someone slammed into it. Either a "reporter" trying to break it down, or someone getting shoved into it. He stepped away from the door. It was a good door, very solid, but he was suddenly wary of whether it would hold or not. "Please tell me you called the cops?"

"Aye. Five minutes ago." Andy cracked open the door enough for him to stick his head out and yell, "If you blighters break my door, I'm taking it out of all of your hides!" Then he slammed and locked it. "Come on. The cops will get them away from the door, but they'll be a waiting to ambush you. I'll sneak you out the back."

"Thanks Andy." He was already planning how to get back into his apartment. So far, his best idea was to use the fire escape. He really hoped the paparazzi didn't think of that and wait at the bottom.

Jason got to the store unhindered, but in the line up, the lady behind him kept staring. He ended up paying way too much for his cat food and vegetables, and left without taking his change or his receipt. He was halfway across the parking lot when a Prius pulled up beside him and a paparazzi leaned out of the back window and shoved a recorder in his face. "Sir, what's your name? What's the nature of your relationship with Cassandra Wayne? How long have you been sleeping together?"

"Fuck off." He cursed the sun. If it was dark, he could have bolted into an alley and grappled to a rooftop.

The paparazzi smiled at him like he was a roast she was about to carve. "Sir, it really is in your best interests to answer."

Maybe he could outrun the Prius... "No it's not. Because if I answer, then I'll get swarmed by even more scum nuggets like you. You can quote me on that by the way. 'Paparazzi are scum nuggets who don't understand simple things like go away'."

"How would you describe the sex? Her dance recital last month suggests she is quite... _limber_."

Jason stared incredulously at the lady. How could she say things like that about Cass? And of course, if he said nothing, her stupid paper would print whatever they wanted and just say that he had declined to comment. "Fine. In order, my name is Steve Trevor, our relationship is strictly platonic, we've been sleeping together for negative a million years and I would describe the sex as nonexistent."

He was saved from further questions by finding a crack between buildings too small for the Prius and ducking into that. His peace lasted all of ten minutes when another paparazzi ran up behind him, huffing, puffing, but still managing to wheeze out his questions. "What's your name and how are you affiliated to the Wayne family?"

"Jim Olsen. I'm their pet hamster." Another building gap, this one barely wide enough to accommodate Jason's shoulder and definitely wouldn't fit the man's bulk.

A block from his apartment, another one asked him his name, age, occupation, and relationship to Cass. "Rip Hunter. I'm forty-seven, I work as a salmon delivery boy and I literally met her yesterday."

He ended up climbing the fire escape on the building behind his, then jumping onto his roof and climbing back down to his window. After disabling his security, he grabbed a metal bowl and filled it, leaving it on the fire escape.

With a sigh, he threw himself onto the couch. "It would be a bad thing to stab the paparazzi. It would be a bad thing to stab the paparazzi. It would be a bad thing to stab the paparazzi." Nope. He still wasn't convinced. And unfortunately, he couldn't just hide out in his apartment for the next two weeks either. He had a stupid dinner appointment with Tim to discuss some ideas he'd had about where Wayne Enterprises charity foundation could put their resources next. Also, he had an idea for a way to make Bat-quality body armor more cheaply, so that Wayne R&D could produce it for soldiers in hot spots. And this was the only break in Tim's schedule for the next month and a half, unless he wanted to chat with Red Robin on patrol.

Sigh. No. He could barely stand to have dinner with Tim. Having a conversation with Red Robin would be unbearable. Plus, if Red Hood tried to speak to Red Robin without the witnesses and cameras a restaurant provided, Nightwing would swoop down with all the force of an overzealous older brother.

Stab a guy one time, and suddenly no one trusts you.

Couldn't blame them really.

Anyways. He had less than half an hour to be out his door, if he wanted to be on time. Hm. Better make it ten minutes, what with all the press trying to track him down. He pulled on one of his million white t shirts (Costco sold them by the gallon), and his nicest leather jacket and headed out.

He ended up being five minutes late. Tim gave him an annoyed look. "I only have an hour for this Jason. And you know that."

"Shaddup. It's not even my fault." He grabbed the menu and ordered the salmon and a tea when the waiter asked. "I had lunch with Cass yesterday, and now every paparazzo in Gotham thinks I'm her lover."

"Ew." Tim winced a bit, which was basically how Jason felt. Was Cass a beautiful girl? Absolutely. Would Jason ever sleep with her? No. She was his sister. Only technically, sure, but that was enough for him.

"No kidding. Hopefully it'll drop off in a few days."

"Yeah." Tim eyed Jason thoughtfully. "Jason, you do know this is the most expensive restaurant in Gotham, right?"

"I do. Which is why you're footing the bill."

Tim nodded, because Jason had let Tim pick the place on the condition that Tim footed the bill. Security for Tim, free food for Jason. Win win. "Yeah, but a leather jacket Jason? Really?"

"What?" He looked down at his jacket, knowing for a fact that it wasn't suited to a fancy restaurant like this. He gave him a look that hopefully looked both offended and confused. "This is my nice one. There aren't even any bloodstains in it!"

With a long suffering sigh, Tim gave up on the subject. "Right. So. Wayne Charities."

For some reason, Jason was surprised when his neighbour slid a copy of the Gotham Enquirer under his door with the headline, "CASSANDRA AND TIMOTHY WAYNE: FIGHTING OVER THE SAME MAN?!"

The next few weeks were torture, but one he strangely enjoyed. He moved safehouses three times, but the paparazzi kept finding him. How, he didn't know. Every safehouse was leased under a different name. He continued giving a different name to each and every paparazzo who asked for it. One of them got wise to his games and asked for his real name no fewer than six times. So he gave her six different names.

His explanations of his relationship to the Waynes also got more convoluted. "I am the guy they hire when they need someone paintballed." "I was conceived out of wedlock by Bruce and a Hungarian supermodel." "I am a clone of Tim who was force grown too old and way more handsome." "I once told Bruce that he was an asshole, and now his kids keep asking for my autograph."

Eventually he realized that any pictures of him were unpublishable, thanks to his extremely monotone wardrobe. Costco's gallon jug of t shirts meant he had a lot of identical white t shirts. That combined with him wearing his favourite jacket every day meant that there was no way to prove the pictures were recent, so the magazines couldn't publish them.

They did publish every interview with him, although they left out the parts where the interviews were conducted wile he was trying to outrun their cars. Four or five of the writers got into massive Twitter flame wars with each other over whether his name was Marcus or Clark. One was absolutely positive that it was Alvin, because no one would ever claim a name that dumb as an alias. Jason had taken great pleasure in sending the Tweet to Tim.

He had been sitting in the corner booth of a cafe, studiously ignoring everyone around him and keeping his face shoved firmly in his book, when he heard footsteps approach him. "If you like having thumbs, you'll leave me alone."

The laugh that answered him was disturbingly familiar. "Bet you I can talk to you and still keep all my digits."

Jason shrugged, refusing to give Dick the satisfaction of looking at him. "Bet you you can't. You might keep your thumbs, sure, but I'm sure I could get a toe or three." He flipped a page.

Dick's index finger hooked over the top of his book, tugging it down so Jason had no choice but to look at him. "So I hear you've been having some difficulty with the press." He sat down. An eager waitress sidled up, filling Dick's coffee cup and refilling Jason's.

"Really? Well that only took three weeks for you to figure out. Are you sure you're the world's second greatest detective?" Jason put his book down beside him and took a sip of coffee. "Sounds like you need practice."

"You know we don't read that stuff." Dick took a sip of his own, grimaced, then added three packs of sugar. "Just every once in a while when we need a good laugh."

"This is the best coffee in the city, why are you ruining it like that?"

"It's bitter." Dick said that like it explained everything.

Jason just rolled his eyes and took another sip of his coffee. "Yes, that's normally how coffee tastes. Doofus." He looked over at his book, tapping the cover. "Did you have a reason for coming here, or are you just living up to your name?"

"Nice, very original." Dick swirled his spoon in his mug. "Just came by to tell you that it should stop, or at least slow down. Bruce owns most of the rags in Gotham, and he's asked them, and I quote, 'to leave that poor boy alone'. There's a few independents who might keep at it, but they don't have the resources that the others do. And once they get word of Tim Wayne's latest fashion disaster, they'll forget about you."

"I'll be old news, huh? Well, that's at least familiar." Before Dick could give his usual stream of objections ("It wasn't like that." "Tim didn't replace you." "Blah blah, I'm a dick, blah."), Jason asked, "Aren't fashion disasters your department?"

"You haven't seen Tim outside of a suit, clearly." Dick tugged out his phone, opening his gallery. "Not only does his taste rival mine, but if he gets tired enough, his ability to be self conscious about what he wears vanishes."

"I can see that." Jason flipped through a few of the pictures. These were cringe-worthy. He sent a few to himself before Dick could stop him.

"Ha, now I have your phone number," Dick said as he snatched back his phone. He went to the contacts page, saving the new number as "Jay~", followed by a knife emoji, a smiley face, and a chick.

"Correction," Jason pulled his phone out and forwarded the pictures to another one of his phones, "you have _one_ of my phone numbers." He flipped the phone over, pulled out the SIM, and slid the phone over to Dick. "Thanks for getting the press off my back. You've got the bill, right?" Grabbing his book, he slid out of the booth and out the door.

The next morning, there was a magazine on his kitchen counter, with a note on it. _Last one, promise._

 _GRAYSON TO GET MARRIED? The mystery man who has been eluding our distinguished reporters was seen at Bien Brew yesterday with Gotham's most contested bachelor. He was seen sliding a distinctly box-like object towards Grayson (28), and then fleeing from the premises. Have we just witnessed a proposal hit and run? Find out on page 3!_

Jason wrinkled his nose in distaste, then shoved the magazine into the garbage.

* * *

 **AN: Man, those paparazzos don't know when to quit. Poor Jason.**

 **For Gen Batfam Week's prompt Paparazzi.**


	7. Chapter 7

**And in the end, we'll be alright**

* * *

It was Father's Day, as it was on the third Sunday of every June. On this particular Father's Day, the midday sun had burned away all the early morning clouds, leaving the sky a pristine blue. Birds sang in the trees in the garden, and butterflies flitted from flower to flower. A cool breeze rose off of the bay, taking the worst of the sun's heat away with it. In short, a perfect day.

Bruce hated it.

He rotated the fountain pen in his fingers, glaring at the perfect sky and perfect day. He would have preferred a storm, with dark clouds stretching from horizon to horizon. Howling winds, crashing thunder, rain so thick it was almost a solid sheet of water. Waves so high the tips of their whitecaps could be seen peeking above the cliff at the end of Wayne Manor's grounds. A storm would be more in line with his emotions than the sunshiney perfection that was today.

The fountain pen stilled in his hands. Bruce curled in on himself, tucking his knees to his chest and resting his hands on them so he could hold the pen to his face. The pen he had gotten his father for Father's Day last year. The pen that Thomas Wayne had loved for its weight, the smoothness with which it put ink on page, but mostly because it had been a gift from Bruce. Thomas had had many pens, but Bruce had given him this one. And now, the ink cartridge was dry, and when Bruce had picked it from its holder hours and hours ago, it had been coated in a fine layer of dust. But he had brought it with him, to the balcony outside of his parents' room, and polished it with one of Alfred's cloths.

Mother's Day had been rough too. That day had seen him in Martha's closet, staring at the scarf he'd given her the year previous.

Thomas and Martha had always, despite their busy schedules, spent Mother's and Father's Day with their son. They'd also made sure to be home in time for Tuesday roast. Tuesday, because weekends were always busy at the hospital. Martha had taken Bruce to the office every Thursday, so he could get used to the atmosphere of the place. Thomas had answered every question Bruce had about medicine, no matter how gruesome. And now, he would never see them again. Never hear their voices, never laugh with them, be scolded by them, never again.

And while Bruce knew that he would have happy days again – no matter how sad he was now, it was impossible to stay like this forever – he would never again have a happy Father's Day.

Alfred left him until supper time. Bruce ate little, and went to bed crying.

* * *

Bruce was awoken when a tray clattered onto his bedside table. Only his quick reflexes prevented the glass of orange juice on top of it from toppling over. Dick retracted his hand, already halfway to the glass, then smiled brightly at Bruce. "Morning! I brought breakfast!"

Bruce used his free hand to rub at his eyes. "Breakfast, huh? What for?"

"It's Father's Day silly!" Dick started pushing at Bruce, trying to get him to sit up. Grumbling, Bruce complied. It was much harder than it should have been. He'd only gotten – he checked the clock – three hours of sleep, thanks to a Scarecrow sighting that had turned out to be a homeless lady in a floppy hat. Once he was upright, Dick grabbed the tray and dropped it in Bruce's lap.

Grabbing the orange juice again and setting it aright, Bruce looked over at his ward. "But we've never celebrated that before."

Dick's smile lost a bit of its luster. "I know. I just... if you don't want to..."

"No!" Bruce reached forward, trying to grab Dick's shoulder, to reassure him. The tray shifted at his sudden change in position, and he had to scramble to save the orange juice. Again. He moved the tray back to his bedside table, then dropped a hand on Dick's upper arm. "I do, and I'm very happy that you want to. I'm just wondering what brought this about."

He patted the spot beside him. Dick took the hint, climbing onto the bed and making himself comfortable. "You should eat that before it gets cold," he said, pointing at the food.

Smiling, Bruce grabbed the tray and put it back on his lap. He took a bite each of the slightly burnt pancakes and floppy bacon, then turned to Dick. "Are you going to wait until I'm done, kiddo?"

"No." Dick swiped a piece of perfectly cut melon from Bruce's plate. "You know how Ezra in my class has two dads?"

Bruce did know. He'd done a thorough background check on each of Dick's classmates and teachers. "Yeah." He cut into his egg, sopping up the overly runny yolk with his toast before it could get on the fruit.

"Well, I thought, if he can have two dads, so can I. I'm not going to love Dad any less because I have another dad. And since you've been dad-ing me for the past three years, I thought it was probably time I thanked you for that. And for, you know, getting me out of juvie and feeding me and making me Robin and-"

Dick was rambling, so Bruce cut him off. "You're welcome Dick. And thank you."

"For what?"

Bruce ate another bite of pancake. "For being you. You have made every part of my life better since you've come into it." He wrapped an arm around Dick's shoulders and pulled him in for a half-hug.

"I made the breakfast you know."

"Oh, I can tell."

* * *

"Morning Alfred." Bruce walked into the kitchen with a yawn. "What's for breakfast today?"

"Good morning sir. The usual." Alfred sat a plate in front of him as he took his seat. He unfolded the paper on the left side of his plate, so he could eat and read at the same time. Alfred stood there for a few minutes, then cleared his throat. "Master Bruce?"

Bruce looked up at Alfred, surprised. Alfred almost never interrupted him when he was reading the paper. Probably because if Bruce was reading the paper, he wasn't out being dressed like a bat and getting stabbed, and that was behaviour Alfred wanted to encourage. As he did so, he noticed Jason, peeking out from behind the door that led to the kitchen. "Yes Alfred?"

"If you would be so kind as to look under your newspaper?" And then, so quietly that Bruce wasn't entirely sure he'd hear him correctly, "World's greatest detective my British posterior."

Bruce lifted an eyebrow, and then the paper. Directly under it, in a bright green envelope that he had somehow missed, was a card. "Bruce" was written on the cover in shaky, but improving print. Picking it up, he flipped open the flap and pulled out a card.

It was a generic Father's Day card, but a nice one. Not from the dollar store, which was odd for Jason. He flipped it open, ignoring the pre-printed text in favour of the words written in the same hand as the envelope. "Hey Bruce, Happy Father's Day and all. Thanks for taking me in. I know I can be a pain in the butt, and I'm sorry about that." The next bit had two lines running through it, scratching it out. "I'm pretty sure you won't kick me out, which is nice." And then the handwriting got a bit hastier. "I didn't mean to write that, sorry! And now I messed up the card and there's no time to go get a new one. I'm sorry, Father's Day is about you, not me and my stupid insecurities. I wanted to thank you, for taking me in. You're a really good dad, much better than Willis, although that's not really a good comparison. A moldy shoe would be a better dad than Willis. But you feed me, and make sure I'm dressed warmly, and always ask me how my day went, and help me with my homework. So thanks Bruce, for being my dad."

As he read, he kept an eye on Jason in the doorway. Every once in awhile, he'd start tapping his fingers on the door, then disappear for a few seconds. When he returned, it was sudden and with a look in his eyes like he was expecting Bruce to have vanished.

Bruce folded up the card and carefully put it back in the envelope. He'd ask Alfred for a frame for it later. For now, he stood up and walked towards his son. Jason opened the door fully and stepped into the doorway, tense and wary. Bruce crouched in front of him, raising his hand slowly so he could tousle Jason's hair. "Thanks chum. And for what it's worth, thanks for being my son."

Jason looked vaguely stunned, like he always did when he reached out and didn't get punished for it. "It's worth a lot Bruce," he mumbled.

Bruce quirked a smile. "So, any plans for the day?"

"I was thinking a movie. And then I'm going to make dinner. I've been practicing with Alfred all week." The last sentence was said quickly, defensively, as if he wanted to reassure Bruce that he wasn't going to accidentally poison him.

"I'm sure I'll love every bite." Bruce stood up, leaving his hand slightly to the side in invitation. Tentatively, Jason took it and Bruce led him to the table. "Now, let's get you fed. Not too much though. Have to leave room for popcorn."

"Don't worry, I can eat a lot of popcorn."

Alfred came in with Jason's plate, filled with even more food than Bruce's had been.

* * *

The box appeared without warning. Normally, that was no big deal, as Bruce understood that people moved things from place to place and tended to leave them lying in weird places. However, this box was in the Batcave.

It was small, just big enough to fit snugly in the palm of his hand. It was wrapped in black paper with a yellow ribbon. There was no attached note, and no indication as to who had left it. So, he started the usual tests. There were no odd gases inside, not that the box was air tight anyways. No radio signals were coming or going from the box, and while a scan did reveal metal on the inside, none of it was electronic. With a raised eyebrow, Batman opened the box.

Inside was a polished batarang, the edges filed and sanded until they were perfectly blunt. When Bruce lifted it out, he felt something on the back and flipped it over. A tie clip had been welded to it, with a note clipped to it. He pulled it out and opened it.

"Bruce," it read, in Barbara's handwriting, "I'm writing this for Cass. She found out last week what Father's Day was when she saved a family on their way back from dinner from getting mugged, and she's been working on this ever since. Oh, and the unmarked box thing was intentional. We needed a few extra minutes to get set up. So if you could go to the Twin Tree Dinner Theater, that'd be great." And then, near the bottom of the page in the untidy scrawl of someone still learning to write, it said, "Happy Father's Day."

Batman smiled slightly, then jumped back in the Batmobile. Thankfully, the Twin Tree was only ten minutes away. He parked near the main entrance. A small velvet bag hung on the door, with a tie and a note that said, "This is a formal event Batman." Obligingly, he slung the tie around his neck and knotted it in a Windsor. Then, he clipped the tie clip to it. It probably looked very strange with his cape and cowl.

Inside, Cass was sitting on the stage, doing stretches. She was in her Batgirl suit, but the cape was missing and the belt had been replaced with a bright yellow tutu. When she saw him enter, she leapt off the stage and ran towards him, grabbing at his arm. "This way."

He let himself be led to a seat near the front. She rolled the chair away from the table and waited for him to sit, then pushed it back in. He sat back, enjoying how comfortable it was. Maybe he should get one for the study.

Cass raced to the side of the room, ducking through a door and returning with a covered tray. She placed it in front of him and uncovered it. The familiar smell of Alfred's roast beef immediately filled the area, causing his stomach to rumble. Patrol always made him hungry, no matter how short. She waited until he had stuck a forkful of mashed potatoes in his mouth, then hopped back on stage and went to the back.

After a minute, the house lights dimmed. If it weren't for the small candle on the table so Batman could see his food, he would have been in complete darkness. Then, a spotlight appeared, illuminating Batgirl who was standing center stage. A slow tune in a major key started playing.

And then Cass started dancing. And Bruce was mesmerized. The analytical part of his mind noticed that she had combined parts of ballet, hip hop, modern dance, and at least three other dance styles that he recognized but wasn't familiar enough with to name into a single cohesive dance. But the analytical part was pushed over within the first thirty bars of music in favour of appreciating every part of the dance.

And she was breathtaking.

When the performance was over, and Cass went backstage, and the house lights came up, he looked down at his plate. Except for that one bite of mashed potatoes, everything was untouched and cold. He cut a square from his roast. Better to eat it now. Alfred's roast was delicious, even when cold.

He had just finished when Cass and Barbara walked and rolled up to him, respectively. He stood to meet them, clapping a hand on Cass's shoulder. "Batgirl, that was amazing! When did you learn to dance? And how?"

"By watching. People at parties, people in clubs, people like to dance."

Barbara snorted. "She's snuck into eight different ballets in as many months."

Bruce just smiled. "We'll have to see about getting you some dance lessons then." And maybe he'd get her tickets to the Paris Ballet next time they were in town.

Cass just smiled at him, the expression clear even through the fabric of her mask. She wrapped her arms around him and he stood shocked for a second before wrapping his around her. "Happy Father's Day Batdad."

He smiled. "Thanks Batdaughter."

* * *

Bruce found one of them when he was going through Tim's room, looking for his laptop so he could get the Ricker case files off of it. Tim had said it was on his desk, but so were his textbooks, his old computer, his camera, about a million pictures, random WE paperwork, and eighteen packs of gum. Tim didn't even chew gum, but there they were.

He ran a hand through his hair and started going through the drawers. In the bottom drawer on the left, was a clear plastic box with a watch in it. He pushed it aside, accidentally knocking it over. And then he noticed the word "Bruce" engraved on the back.

Curious, he opened the box, tugging the watch off of its holder. On the back, it said, "Happy Father's Day Bruce," in elegant engraving.

But Father's Day had been four months ago, and the watch that Tim had gotten him had been accidentally smashed in a fight with some villain or another. Maybe this was for next Father's Day. It wouldn't surprise him. Since last Father's Day hadn't turned out like Tim had wanted, preparing for the next one eight or more months in advance was exactly what he'd do. Bruce wiped his prints from the watch and the box and set them back in the drawer, closing it. He'd have to act surprised, but it would be worth it to see Tim's face.

He eventually found the laptop under the bed. And believed that to be the last of that.

Until Bowman's Jewelers called, a month later. "Hello, is Mister Drake there? We're calling to inform him that his watch is ready for pick up."

Bruce frowned into the phone. "What watch?"

"The one he purchased from us last week. Apologies for the long wait. Our engraver was on a family holiday."

Confused, Bruce said he would relay the message and hung up. Then he went upstairs. Sure enough, the watch that he had seen in Tim's desk was still there. He raised an eyebrow. Perhaps this new one was for Alfred. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the Teen Titans private line.

Later, with Christmas just around the corner, Bruce's packages arrived at the doorstep. He had bought a beautiful ammolite necklace for Selina, but had wanted the setting to be changed. The jewelers obliged, saying they would deliver it posthaste.

Inside the bag were two boxes. One contained the necklace he'd ordered, the setting curving around the ammolite and making it look like a beautifully stylized cat eye. Not something Selina could steal from a museum, he noted with a smirk.

He assumed the other box was a gratuity gift and opened it without really looking at it. The other box contained a watch. He flipped it over and on the back it read, "Happy Father's Day Bruce."

Bruce glared incredulously at the watch. Then he packed up the box, erasing any indication that he'd opened it. As he did, he noticed a note taped to the side. "Dear Mister Drake, here is the item you ordered."

So Tim had ordered another, very different, watch from the same jeweler that Bruce had gone to. Except that Bruce hadn't told anyone what he was getting for Selina, or that he was getting her anything at all, so it had to have been a coincidence. And the jewelers, being decent and also very busy people, had dropped off both packages at the same time.

When he checked Tim's desk, yes, the first watch was still there. Bruce sighed and went back to planning what to get Ivy and Hatter for Christmas.

When Father's Day did finally roll around, Tim handed him a single box. Inside was a watch, obviously different than the other two and with the words, "Happy Father's Day Bruce," engraved on the back. Bruce was very happy to receive it, and genuinely surprised, although not for the reason Tim thought.

"Yeah," Tim said, rubbing the back of his neck every time he felt the need to explain something that didn't need explaining, "I ordered about eight watches from different jewelers over the course of the year. You know, after last year, better safe than sorry. But most of them broke accidentally. That's the only one that survived."

"I love it." He strapped it to his wrist, admiring the large watch face and the contrast of the black leather strap on his skin. "Did you keep the broken ones?"

Twenty minutes later, seven new watches sat in the trophy room next to the watch from last year. Three were smashed, two were half melted, one had severe water damage, and one was running counter clockwise. But Bruce loved how much effort Tim had put into getting them all, and he wanted to remember that.

(Also, the counter clockwise one was kind of neat. He ran it under several scanners and for all intents and purposes, it should be running correctly.)

* * *

Bruce opened a bleary eye. He was laying on his stomach, staring at a pair of socks sitting on the other pillow. The socks had feet in them, feet that he followed up to a knee, and then to his youngest sitting on his headboard. "Father. Good, you're awake. Please get dressed forthwith. We have a very full day ahead of us." And then Damian jumped off the headboard and ran out the door.

With a groan, Bruce sat up, and then got up and dressed. When he finally made it to the kitchen, Damian was standing at the island, putting the finishing touches on the breakfast sitting there. It was waffles and fruit, and even from a few feet away, Bruce could see the glimmering perfection of it. The fruit had been cut into exactly even sizes and placed at even intervals around the dome that was the whipped cream. "Hello Father. I have prepared breakfast for you."

"I can see that." He sat down across from his son. Damian's waffles had the same fruit and whipped cream as Bruce's, but the cream was simply spooned on and the fruit was cut less perfectly. Bruce cut into his waffles and took a bite. "You said we had a lot to do?"

"Indeed." Damian pulled out a list. "I have done much research on the subject of Father's Day and have come up with a list of activities for us to do together. The three of them combined should take most of the day."

Bruce took another bite. These were really tasty. "Alright. So what's first?"

"Paintball." Damian slid a brochure across the table. "We are competing against four other father-child teams. I suggest we take out the Davidsons first. They cheated and are bringing two children."

The Delta Force Paintball Range did a Father's Day competition every year, according to the brochure. After breakfast, Bruce drove them down, despite Damian's insistence that he could do it. Once they got suited up in their vests and safety goggles, they waited with the other four families to be let in.

Despite his reservations against them, Bruce did know how to use a gun, and use it well. Together, he and Damian ducked around obstacles and took out the competition one by one. Between their stealth training and ability to climb obstacles that would stump anyone less fit than them, it was an easy victory. The Davidsons did indeed go down first.

Their reward for winning was dinner from Manny's Pizzeria for the two of them. After they collected their coupon (which would be presented when they arrived. They could order whatever they wanted, and Manny's would give the bill to Delta Force. Obviously, don't eat them bankrupt, and it was for the two of them only), Bruce drove them to Crash Course Go Karts.

Bruce enjoyed himself much more than he thought he would. The go karts were much lower to the ground than he was used to, and much slower, but he and Damian got into a race. First person to a hundred laps would get ice cream from the loser. Bruce would like to say that he let Damian win, but that would be a lie. He had intended to, definitely, but Damian ended up beating him fair and square.

They got ice cream from the vendor next to the track, and ate while they watched go karts zip by. They did one more lap of the track, and then left.

"Oh, it's raining." Bruce stuck his hand out, catching a few drops on his palm. Good thing he'd parked close by. "It's really coming down. So, Damian-"

He had been about to ask Damian where to next, but Damian was looking at the rain with a mixture of hopelessness and fury. "No! It can't be raining! If it's raining, then the car show will get canceled!"

Car show? "That's fine." Gotham car shows normally lasted a week, from Sunday to Saturday. Which meant that today was the first day and they'd have plenty of time to go later in the week.

"No, it's not! Today has to be perfect!" Damian's lower lip was quivering, his eyelids scrunched up like he could will the tears growing in the corners back into his ducts.

"Damian? What's wrong?" Damian did like cars, but not enough to cry over missing them. Bruce knelt next to his youngest son, grabbing his shoulder.

"I..." Damian's breath caught and a tear slid down his face. He scrubbed at it furiously. "It's our first Father's Day together. It needs to be perfect. It has to be."

And Bruce pulled Damian closer, cautiously. The boy was still hesitant when it came to hugs, which made sense considering how Ra's had raised him. "And it has been. I'm sorry I wasn't there for the first ten Father's Days. I know how much work you put into this. But today isn't ruined because of one rain storm. And really, while going to the car show would have been great, I'd much rather get a pizza with you and talk. Get to know you better."

Damian sniffled into his shoulder. Tension that Bruce hadn't noticed he'd been carrying melted away. "Really?"

"Really. I have a lot to catch up on."

Damian nodded, and his hands ghosted across Bruce's back briefly before moving to his chest and pushing him away. Bruce moved smoothly with the push, stopping when Damian was a little less than arm's length apart. "Now come on. Let's see how Manny's Pizzeria holds up against two hungry vigilantes."

A predatory smile crossed Damian's face. "They don't stand a chance."

* * *

Alfred was sipping tea in the drawing room. For Father's Day, Bruce had promised to take care of the children so that Alfred could have a break. So far, four shrieks of varying degrees of terror and two crashes of broken glass had filtered through the manor. Which was much better than he had expected so far.

A quiet knock sounded at his door. "Hey Alfred." Bruce entered with a covered tray. "Just bringing you some lunch." He placed the tray on a nearby table and lifted the cover.

"Indeed?" Alfred looked at the tray dubiously. Bruce, for all his talents in crime fighting, could screw up a tuna salad sandwich. Once he had gotten so engrossed in a case that he'd forgotten he'd put on a pot of water for soup. Two hours later, the water had all evaporated, the pot had been ruined, and a circular scorch mark had been burned into the counter where Bruce had dropped the lid onto it.

Bruce saw the look on his face and said quickly, "Jason helped me, and Dick."

That was reassuring. Jason could cook nearly as well as Alfred himself. And while Dick was rather hopeless with the fancier meals, he could put together a very delicious sandwich. Alfred set his book to the side and grabbed one of the sandwiches. Bruce sank into the chair next to him with a sigh. "That's a good sign Master Bruce. I take it the children are behaving?"

"Oh, of course they are." Bruce sank deeper into the cushions. "Duke is the only one of them who hasn't given me a headache yet, but I saw him whispering with Tim and Steph, so that's probably going to change." As soon as he said it, another crash sounded through the house. "I'll get it."

Before leaving, Bruce turned around, one hand on the door handle. "Happy Father's Day Alfred."

Alfred gave Bruce a small smile over his soup spoon. "And to you sir."

* * *

 **AN: Written for Gen Batfam Week's prompt Father's Day. Hooray!**

 **I'm going to mark this as completed, but there's a prompt someone gave me that I'll add to this as well. But this is the last of the "official" prompts.**

 **The Tim segment references Robin 163 where Tim gets Bruce an engraved watch for Father's Day, which then gets destroyed in a fight with a bunch of wackos and also makes him late to cook dinner. In case you were wondering, which you probably weren't.**

 **Read and enjoy! Loxie OUT!**


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